


and you can say that my hair's a disgrace

by Phoenix_Soar



Series: Scattering Stars Like Dust [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angel/Demon Relationship, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Historical References, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Sensuality, This Is How Crowley Falls A Second Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-06-03 14:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19466341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/pseuds/Phoenix_Soar
Summary: Angels don’t shield Demons.Well, Angels typically don’t disobey orders* and give away their Heaven-issued flaming swords, either.orThe Author Set Up an Entire Fic Just to Make Aziraphale Touch Crowley's Long Hair ... over the course of 6000 years!





	1. Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written fic in like two years (having to write for a living did that to me, the irony, eh). Coming back to it, thanks to Good Omens, felt so good, even though it's like 3:00 a.m. right now.
> 
> If you want to thank anyone for this silly little fic, I was inspired by [this post](https://aziraphvle.tumblr.com/post/185559303102/literally-no-one-is-gonna-write-fic-with).
> 
> (In keeping with the Good Omens' fandom tradition, the title is, of course, taken from Queen lyrics. It both does and absolutely doesn't make sense for this fic.)

The first time it happens is in the Beginning, and it is as spontaneous and unprecedented as when the Angel lifts his pristine white wing over the Serpent’s head, shielding him from the first rain.

Angels don’t shield Demons.

Well, Angels typically don’t disobey orders* and give away their Heaven-issued flaming swords, either.

* That is a rather irrelevant generalisation though because Angels certainly can and have disobeyed. Lucifer and the boys are clear proof of that. 

One can say that technically Crawly is also proof, but he doesn’t really identify himself as ‘one of the boys’; a side effect of Sauntering Vaguely Downwards as opposed to straight up (or down?) Falling.

But Aziraphale is clearly not like the rest of his lot Upstairs* and Crawly hasn’t stopped thinking about him ever since that guilty wail of ‘I gave it away!'

* He remembers Gabriel and Michael, vague memories from back when he had been among their ranks, and in retrospect, Crawly doesn’t think they are much of an _improvement_ from the likes of Beelzebub and Hastur.

Bosses are of the same ilk everywhere, it seems; Heaven, Hell and even on Earth, as time would eventually tell.

To be fair, though, it is hard not to think about someone when you are still firmly glued to their side, but Crawly does not feel the need to slither back to Hell just yet. The storm is terribly strong and not even Aziraphale’s wing can keep the rain from soaking him, but Crawly remains where he is, both of them watching the fading glow of the sword as Adam and Eve disappear across the dunes.

‘Oh, I do hope they find shelter somewhere’, murmurs Aziraphale at last.

His voice is laced with such concern that, for a moment, Crawly tries to think of how to comfort him before it dawns how ridiculous that notion is. Even the lowest scum in Hell knows that that is as far from a Demon’s job description as it can get.

‘Your fretting isn’t going to help them any,’ is what he ends up saying. ‘You’ve already done all you could anyway, giving the sword to her’, his mouth continues, without any explicit permission from his brain.

Aziraphale takes it in good grace. ‘I suppose, yes. It must be all part of the Plan anyway. Not for us to worry over.’

His face shows that he is very much worrying over it.

‘Well, no point in us standing here any more’, says Crawly. ‘Let’s go inside.’

Aziraphale doesn’t question why Crawly is still here or why he is none-too-subtly suggesting they take shelter from the rain together.

Instead, he questions something Crawly is not expecting: ‘Ought we go inside, though? I mean, the Garden was for them, really. Not us.’

Crawly gives him a look. ‘Aren’t you stationed here?’

‘To guard the Gate, yes!’*

* Aziraphale is staunchly ignoring the gnawing feeling that, maybe, he had done a rather poor job of it. A Serpent had gotten inside, after all.

‘I daresay the Angel tasked with guarding the Garden can enter it as he pleases,’ Crawly says drily.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but lightning flashes across the sky followed by a deafening crack of thunder, and that finally sways him.

Crawly tries not to look too pleased as they enter Eden again.

‘How about over there,’ he suggests nonchalantly, throwing out a careless hand. ‘It looks pretty dry under that tree.’

Aziraphale follows the curve of his arm and blanches when he sees exactly which Tree he is pointing at.

He turns to the Demon, his eyes almost glowing with the force of his disapproval, and Crawly feels both amused and shamefully chided.

The joke is probably in poor taste, he concedes, considering the recent turn of events regarding the Tree of Knowledge that Crawly* set in motion.

* Crawly would come to resent this assertion. He had merely followed orders to create some mischief in Eden, after all, and anyway, it’s not like he _forced_ anyone to do anything.

‘Alright, alright,’ he chuckles with a shrug. ‘Somewhere else, then; how about-?’

He turns around and promptly walks into a low-hanging branch of another tree, laden with wet fruit that greets him wetly in the face.

Crawly makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat as the force of the collision sends him reeling backwards, his newly-acquired limbs* flailing.

* He spent the majority of his time Downstairs in serpentine form, and all the extra limbs he has now are rather overwhelming in their unsureness of _what to do_.

Crawly is furious. He _knew_ he should have practised walking more before he approached the stupid Angel. All that effort to make that grand entrance he had planned and successfully executed, by slithering up to Aziraphale’s side and regally taking on the form of his human vessel as the Angel stared in shock, gone to waste.

He catches his balance, just barely, and swiftly straightens and turns to Aziraphale. The mortification of his graceless stumble is suffocating (a figure of speech; he doesn’t need to breathe but will later get into the habit of it) but Crawly cannot show his embarrassment in front of the Angel, and -

‘Uh.’

Crawly stares dumbly at the hand extended towards him. Aziraphale is still, caught in the act of reaching out to steady him or - Go-, no _Satan_ -forbid - _catch_ him if he fell. His fingers are a mere breath from touching him.

’Oh, are you alright?’ Aziraphale asks. ‘That was quite a hit you took, walking into that branch like that! It looked rather painful.' 

Crawly is overcome with the strangest sensations. He is glaring at Aziraphale’s hand, tempted to hiss at the raindrops dripping off his fingertips as if questioning the sheer audacity of it trying to help him. But then Aziraphale lowers his arm and Crawly almost protests, all his senses heightened and straining towards the Angel and his touch that didn’t quite happen and -

‘I didn’t walk into it,’ Crawly snaps. He folds his arms. ‘It walked into me.’

There is a pause, agonisingly long even for an immortal being, and then Aziraphale smiles. Crawly fidgets. He is sure he’s not misreading the poorly veiled amusement in the Angel’s eyes. The embarrassing nature of the whole situation has escalated exponentially, but before he can do anything else, Aziraphale says,

‘How very rude of it. I’ll be sure to reprimand it accordingly.’

His jaw almost drops. Aziraphale is _teasing_ him; not unkindly, but surely poking fun at others, of a Demonic nature or not, cannot be considered very Angelic, Crawly thinks. He considers morphing back into a snake and just fleeing to Down Below, but then it happens.

‘Would you look at that, it even left a few leaves in your hair. What unacceptable behaviour,’ exclaims Aziraphale. He is still wearing that smile that makes Crawly want to scream, and then he is raising his arm again, raindrops bouncing off his skin and soaking into his white sleeve, and all Crawly can manage is an eloquent ‘Ngk’ as the Angel’s fingers sink into his curls.

The rain from the first storm is chilly and the ringing air inside the Garden is cool, but all Crawly can feel right now is the soft warmth of Aziraphale’s hand as he plucks the leaves from his hair. 

His delicate fingers graze his scalp just so, but they leave fire in their wake.

Crawly has no more words. He stands, frozen in what feels like a silent eternity, as Aziraphale pulls the last leaf out of his hair. There could not have been more than two or three, but to the Demon’s stunned mind, Aziraphale may as well have been pulling entire shrubs out of his locks, so long did that eternity last.

‘There’, Aziraphale says at last, and Crawly almost starts breathing again but then positively chokes when the Angel cards his soft fingers right through Crawly’s now leaf-free hair, carefully putting his curls to right again and caressing his head in the process, and Satan help him, Crawly leans in -

‘All better.’

This time, Aziraphale _is_ finished and he puts his hand down, smiling benignly at Crawly as if he were a sweet new life-form the Angel discovered in the Garden he protects. As if it were perfectly normal for an Angel to tease and fuss over a Demon’s hair.

And as a Serpent, Crawly supposes he _is_ a life-form that came anew to the Garden, but he came from Below, he is not sweet or innocent, or to be cooed at -

‘ _Angel_ ’, Crawly rasps, and he means for it to be a protest and a harsh reminder for Aziraphale about what Adversaries they are to each other; but something must have gotten lost between _intention_ and _action_ because the blessed word comes out sounding - as Crawly will learn centuries later after mingling with humans* - like an endearment.

* There will not be any documentation on Earth to prove it later, but ‘angel’ as a term of endearment will not be of human origin. Rather, the term will be adopted by a hopeless romantic after overhearing a stylish gentleman, dressed in all black, address his more old-fashioned looking partner as such, while walking past them on the street.

The endearment will stand the test of time, never completely going out of fashion despite experiencing fluctuating bouts of popularity.

Perhaps it is Crawly’s dumbfounded reaction that does it. Aziraphale’s smile weakens a little, the giddy amusement on his face dimming as well, and for the first time, he looks slightly flustered as if he is realising that what he’s just done was quite untoward.

But the uncertainty doesn’t last too long* and, next thing Crawly knows, Aziraphale is heading to the trunk of the tree whose blasted branch had brought all this on in the first place.

* Aziraphale has been having a Day; he gave away his flaming sword only a short while ago, and in the face of that kind of Disobedience, removing a leaf from a Demon’s hair quite paled in comparison.

Crawly would be quite put out to know that.

‘It’s quite nice and dry here,’ Aziraphale says, settling down at the foot of the trunk and petting the ground next to him as if that, too, were a perfectly normal invitation to give a Demon.

In that moment, it strikes Crawly that he came here as the tempter, but he is feeling more and more like the tempted with every passing second, and why doesn’t that feel bad?

If it feels bad, it’s alright. Demons thrive on Bad, after all. This feels strangely Good and that should send Crawly crawling back to Hell, but his legs - blessed things that he is certain are still not under his full control - saunter their way over to Aziraphale and fold themselves so that he finds himself sitting under the dense canopy, close enough to the Angel to bump their knees together.

They don’t speak much again as they wait out the first storm, Aziraphale gazing out at the Garden with a soft smile, and Crawly staring at Aziraphale with a stupid smile. But the silence is comfortable, and while that should bother Crawly, he is far more focused on the phantom memory of soft fingers in his hair.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he will not be able to rid himself of that feeling for the next six millennia and Crawly is - this word hasn’t been invented yet but there is none more suitable - fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might continue this. I initially intended to write a '5 Times Aziraphale Touched Crowley's Hair' kind of thing, with the aforementioned touching happening at various points throughout their 6000-year history. The favourite scenes I had in mind were for Mesopotamia- and Golgotha-era Crowley because those hairstyles were a G I F T. 
> 
> But then I wrote this one, which was supposed to be a single scene, maybe around 500 words, but look at what happened. I decided to post it as a one-shot, but I might write out the other scenes and keep adding to this fic.
> 
> Tell me what you thought of it? ^_^


	2. Mesopotamia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with the historical hair petting between the Ineffable Husbands XD Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos, I didn't expect the response this fic got for the first part!
> 
> This second part takes place in the Mesopotamia-era, which features one of my all-time favourite - if not _the_ favourite - Crowley hairdo!
> 
> The style here is a bit different and there is mild angst involved as I explored another side of Crowley here. Ugh gosh I don't even know what this is anymore, I just wanted to write Aziraphale touching Crowley's hair, how did it come to this lol

The gentle drizzle lasts until the final pair of animals* are shepherded onto the ark. As soon as the swishing tail of the last horse disappears inside, the wind picks up with a vengeance, bringing with it the full force of the storm that, until then, seems to have been lying in wait for the right moment.

(* The last unicorn is among them. She is rather miffed that her companion - though a stranger handpicked by the humans to be her mate - ran off without so much as a by-your-leave. Good riddance to him.)

Neither Crawly nor Aziraphale had moved after the first rain drops began to fall. But after the few humans who are allowed onboard run up the gangplank, shielding themselves from the elements as best they can, Crawly turns away.

He resolutely walks off, his back to the ark, winding his way through the throngs of people left behind. He can hear them, the nervous chattering of adults mingling with the highpitched voices of their children, and he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on a distant range of mountains, far across the sparsely green plains.

None of them will be around much longer. Not the plains, not the mountains, not the people.

Not above water, anyway.

He feels tendrils of anger coursing through him, anger mixed with confusion. It’s not a new feeling* to him, and he buries it down. He has more pressing things to consider, like how the heaven he is going to survive the flooding of the entire blessed world without discorporating.

(* Crawly has felt these feelings _acutely_ before; before the Garden, before _Hell_. It was this very feeling that led him to ask questions. Look where that got him.

He still feels this way occasionally - exhibit A being this very moment - but there is hardly any point. His current bosses don’t care any more than the old ones did, and Crawly can’t do much to change earthly situations, his personal opinions be blessed. That is perhaps the one policy Heaven and Hell share - their agents are only allowed to _influence_ humans, not _interfere_ … no matter how many children might die.)

As the wind grows into a ferocious gale, the voices of the children rise too, their tones taking on the colour of fear. Crawly grinds his teeth, closing his serpentine eyes against the barrage of rain on his face.

‘Crawly!’

Aziraphale.

Crawly almost turns, drawn to his voice just as he had immediately been to the Angel’s presence upon entering Mesopotamia.

But he catches himself. He won’t turn; he won’t look. Not at the ark. Not at those left behind.

The storm reminds him of that first rain in the Garden, but there had been shelter there. Shelter behind the high walls. Under the heavy canopies of bountiful trees.

Under the blinding white feathers of a wing, offered unconditionally and without question. 

Crawly’s eyes snap open. Of course. What else is there for it?

For the first time in many a century, the Demon unfurls his wings, an audible sigh escaping his lips at the stretch of long-neglected joints and tendons.

The rain glides off his charcoal-black feathers but Crawly can guess that the situation will not last. Not with this kind of storm.

But there is nothing for it and, with a few beats of his wings, he is in the air. The panicking humans behind him don’t notice the sudden, prominent presence of a supernatural entity amongst them, because Crawly doesn’t want to be noticed.

Only the one other supernatural being in the vicinity sees him and Crawly is certain that he calls after him again.

Crawly doesn’t answer. He beats his wings harder, rising higher and higher as he makes for the distant mountains, away from events he wants nothing to do with but cannot escape.

~***~

The mountains can provide a reprieve only for so long. The flood waters continue to rise, so fast that they appear to be devouring the earth, and Crawly flies from summit to higher summit until there is simply no place left for him to land anymore.

He hasn’t kept track of the days, but Crowley is certain that it has rained nonstop for _at least_ a fortnight.

He hovers over an endless ocean that stretches as far as the eye can see, beating his sodden wings as the storm buffets him. The sky is iron grey, the waters covering the earth is iron grey, and Crawly is feeling pretty grey too. Flying day and night takes a toll when your wings are weighed down with water.*

(* Crawly had, at first, conjured a minor demonic miracle to keep his wings dry. But once there was no more land and he could not afford to rest his wings, the continuous conscious effort to maintain the miracle was simply too draining.)

At his most desperate, Crawly had entered the water, taking on his serpentine form, to take a break from flying. But he could not swim forever, even as a snake, and morphing back to his human vessel did not make him any less wet.

Crawly is miserable. And so very cold.*

(* The chill is more bearable in his human form, but nonetheless, Crawly’s demonic roots are serpentine and he catches himself thinking longingly of the pleasant heat that rolls in waves across desert plains. Well, used to roll, anyway.)

It is a testament to the absolutely wretched state of his mind that he begins to wonder whether allowing himself to drown and discorporate, and ultimately wait out the flood Down Below, would be a better option*. But the fleeting thought disappears when he feels a presence that he should find neither as familiar nor as welcoming as he does in that moment.

(* It won’t be. Not long after Crawly began his appointment on Earth, he discovered that literally _any_ option is better than Hell. Even the handful of times he has to report Downstairs in an official capacity are hardly tolerable, few and far between though they are.

The very thought of putting up with Lord Beelzebub, with Hastur and Ligur breathing nastily down his neck, for however many years - or _decades_ \- it might take to sort out the paperwork in the event of his discorporation, is a bloody nightmare. And that’s saying a lot, since Hell is, by definition, the stuff of nightmares.)

There is the unmistakeable sound of wings, and they are not his own.

‘Crawly! There you are - oh dear!’

Crawly turns around and there is Aziraphale, mere feet from him, beating his own wings furiously against the wind to hover in one spot, give or take a couple of feet.

The Angel is as soaked as he is, the pale material of his garment clinging to his form, much like Crawly’s own darker clothes. But unlike Crawly, Aziraphale does not look like he is about to fall out of the sky in exhaustion. His eyes are sharp and focussed - and filled with concern so earnest Crawly wants to look away.

‘You look like death,’ exclaims Aziraphale, reaching for him. ‘I mean, well, not like _Death_ , I suppose. We won’t see that fellow for many, many years yet, and hopefully never - but oh, my dear boy, where have you been in this terrible storm-’

Crawly is hardly listening anymore. He is so tired, and whatever part of his consciousness that is still working is fixated on Aziraphale’s fingers wrapped gently around his elbow.

The Angel is warm, even through the layer of cloth. The point of contact is so small, but all of Crawly’s senses are converging on the heat pooling around his elbow, wishing it would spread to the rest of his chilled body.

‘How did you find me?’ He croaks, his voice cracking with tiredness.

Aziraphale looks at him, his human eyes reflecting the deep grey of the violent skies above and churning seas below.

‘Much like how you found me earlier, I presume,’ he says.

Oh. Of course Aziraphale can feel his presence just as well as Crawly can pinpoint the other. Somewhere in his fatigued mind, Crawly wonders exactly what Aziraphale senses when he, a Demon, is near. But therein lies inexplicable sadness and pain, and Crawly decides he doesn’t want to deal with that right now.

Maybe not ever. 

‘Crawly.’ Aziraphale sounds gentle, even over the noise of the storm. ‘You need shelter. Come with me.’

‘And where, exactly, do you propose we find shelter?’ Crawly asks, a note of derision creeping into his tone. ‘The whole blessed world is under water!’

A fleeting look crosses Aziraphale’s features. If Crawly didn’t feel like he were about to collapse, he might hazard that the Angel looked unspeakably sad for a moment there. 

‘There is only one place where we can take shelter now.’

Crawly gapes at him. ‘Are you serious?’

Not that Angels are ever in the habit of making jokes, mind.

‘Of course. I’ve been on it this whole time. Where else is there to go?' 

Crawly grinds his teeth, beating his wings through sheer will power. A part of him wants to refuse and fly away, but Aziraphale still has his elbow in a gentle grasp and Crawly is _just so tired_. Tired of everything.

‘How far?’ He sighs, resigned.

‘Not too far off. I was wondering where you’d gone off to and kept an, um, eye out for you this whole time, so to speak.’

There is a part of him that feels obligated to make a snide comment about Angelic busybodies meddling with the welfare of Demons, but the other part - admittedly larger part - is floundering for words.

Aziraphale had been - is - concerned. For him. Crawly.

He is here, braving the storm and floods, to help an Adversary he has really no business helping.

There isn’t a single fibre left in Crawly to fight against him anymore.

‘Lead the way, angel.’

~***~

Aziraphale doesn’t let go of his elbow until they make it back to the ark. Crawly doesn’t tell him to let go.

On the contrary, he allows his mind to focus solely on the feeling of Aziraphale’s touch and warmth for the whole journey. It helps to distract him from his exhaustion and the merciless rain, is what he tells himself.

Aziraphale is right. The ark isn’t all that far from where Crawly had been when the Angel found him. The vessel appears over the horizon soon enough, and Aziraphale guides Crawly through the rain to land lightly on the roof of the ark.

Well, Aziraphale lands lightly. Crawly collapses as soon as his feet make contact with the roof, glad to give up the energy it takes to keep him airborne. The rain is still heavy and unforgiving, the roof of the ark offering no protection from the elements, but he can at least rest a bit now. 

The Angel is kneeling by his side in a moment, his hand on Crawly’s shoulder as the Demon goes down on his hands and knees, prostrating* almost. 

(* Even in such a state, the sheer irony of it is not lost on Crawly.)

‘Do you wish to lie down somewhere? I can’t imagine it’s been pleasant, flying around nonstop for nearly a month. You must be exhausted, poor thi -’

‘ _How long_ did you say?’ Crawly sputters, the shock sending him reeling back onto his knees.

Aziraphale hesitates. ‘A month.’

‘It’s been raining day and night for _thirty days_ now?!’

‘Twenty-eight so far, actually.’

‘What in all the heaven -’ Crawly makes a hissing noise under his breath, rustling his wings. They are still heavy with rain. ’And how long is it supposed to go on? Don’t tell me your side hasn’t told you anything, this is their doing, after all!’

Aziraphale settles into a more comfortable position opposite Crawly on the roof, crossing his legs under him. He does not look particularly happy, blinking slowly as the rain fell on his face, but he answers steadily,

‘Forty days and nights, I’m told.’

Crawly hisses again, clenching his hands into fists in the drenched material of his clothes.

‘And then what?’

‘Then…’ Aziraphale wrings his hands in his lap. ‘The flood begins to subside. The waters will drain. There will be land again.’

‘How _long_ , Angel?!’

Aziraphale sighs and Crawly knows he will not like the answer.

‘A hundred and fifty days.' 

For a moment, Crawly cannot speak. He stares at Aziraphale, his ochre eyes bulging.

The Angel says nothing, looking back at him. Although sharp and clear, Crawly realises that there is a heaviness in Aziraphale’s eyes. Like he is tired too.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Crawly drops his gaze, forcing his fingers to loosen their death grip on the folds of his robe. He shifts his weight, mirroring Aziraphale to adopt a more comfortable position. 

‘Well,’ he says flatly. ‘Looks like we’re stuck in the rain for another fortnight then.’ Granted, he now has a place where he can rest, which is a vast improvement to being stuck in the sky in a storm, but he’s still bitter about recent events.

‘Do you wish to go inside?’ asks Aziraphale, seemingly unfazed by Crawly’s ungratefulness.

‘And give the humans a scare?’ He cannot help the smirk. ‘Shouldn’t that be my idea and not yours?’ 

‘Well, obviously their quarters are out of the question. But the, er, barn, shall we call it, is dry and quite spacious.’

‘Sleeping with the animals?’ Crawly drawls, lifting an eyebrow.

Aziraphale sighs again. ‘You don’t need sleep. But it’s dry in there. And there’s room to have a lie-in.’

Crawly looks intently at him. ‘And you’ve been hiding in the _barn_ this whole time?’

Aziraphale fidgets. ‘Er, no, not exactly. Shem and the rest come in often to feed the animals. The feeding times are quite irregular and, ah, it became rather, well, difficult to conjure miracles on time so that they won’t see me…’

Crawly’s lips are twitching in spite of himself.

‘So you switched residence to up here, on the open roof, where they won’t see you, since the humans have enough sense to stay inside during a storm.’

‘Well yes, it’s more convenient for me -’

‘I’m sure sitting in the rain that’s drowning the entire blessed world must be most convenient for you.' 

Crawly regrets the words as soon as he speaks them. He regrets them even more when he sees the look on Aziraphale’s face. 

There is silence for a long moment.

Then Aziraphale shifts, turning his body so that he’s facing the ocean, his left side to Crawly.

‘It was never my choice or decision, you know.' 

Crawly sighs, looking down at his lap. ‘I know.’ 

He is angry and upset. But he is not angry and upset with Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale just happens to be the only one around, who is here; the only one Crawly can take his frustrations out on. 

It’s not fair, he knows. Not that a Demon should care about that, but he does care; he cares about the downturn of Aziraphale’s mouth; he cares that Aziraphale is looking away from him.

‘Listen, I…’ Crawly bites his lip, his eyeteeth digging into his skin. He is obviously not in the habit of thanking people, and no doubt, Hell would throw a fit if they ever overheard him thanking an Angel of all beings. 

But Aziraphale is here. He came for Crawly. He saved him.

And bugger him if that isn’t doing the oddest things to his insides.

Crawly releases his lower lip and says in a rush, ‘I’m glad you came for me.’

His throat clogs up after that, but Aziraphale is turning to him. His expression is soft again, his eyes softer. 

‘Of course,’ he says simply, and Crawly knows that the Angel recognises, and accepts, the gratitude Crawly cannot otherwise express.

‘And as for what I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted me,’ he continues primly, ‘I was about to tell you that I usually cast a small miracle to shield me from the rain up here. Like a, a transparent roof, if you will.’ 

Crawly stares. ‘Oh.’

‘Yes. Oh,’ repeats Aziraphale, a touch testily. ‘I suggested the barn because it is more comfortable for a lie-down. Plenty of space in the stable because, well, one of the unicorns got away, didn’t it? But for _me_ , up here is more convenient as I don’t have to worry about humans walking in on me, and I can stay dry enough should I wish it!’

‘Right,’ Crawly mumbles.

‘ _Right_ ,’ Aziraphale parrots, still in the same testy tone.* ‘So, I was really laying out your options for you, _if_ you cared to know about them.’

(* This is Crawly’s first time experiencing what Aziraphale is like during an argument, especially one in which he feels Very Wronged. He is both befuddled and ridiculously endeared, and the latter sentiment will continue to grow, untethered, over their future encounters.)

‘Yeah, um, I think I’ll stay here,’ Crawly finally stammers. ‘Horses don’t like me. I don’t want to get kicked while I’m sleeping.’

‘I said the unicorn stable, not horses.’

‘Eh, they’re just horses with a ruddy horn on their heads, aren’t they?’ Crawly shrugs. ‘And…’ He turns so that he is facing the ocean like Aziraphale is, and surreptitiously shifts closer to the Angel so that their shoulders are just shy of touching. 

‘The roof isn’t so bad,’ he finishes.

Aziraphale gives him a brief look, the corners of his mouth curved up like he’s holding in a smile. Then he reaches up and, with a downward motion, snaps his fingers.

The rain stops. Or at least, it stops raining on them. Crawly looks around and realises that Aziraphale’s miracle is shielding the whole roof. Beyond its ledge, the rain continues to pelt the deck of the ark.

Crawly smiles, and for the first time in days, feels content.

He absentmindedly reaches up to run his hand through his long hair, grimacing at the wet matted locks as he drags his fingers -

‘Ow!’ Crawly yelps as the digits snag on what appear to be several knots - _knots!_ \- in his hair.

He makes another noise of pain as one of his fingers catch on a wet braid as he pulls his hand free.

Crawly glowers down at the limp strands falling down his shoulders and over his chest. Of course, a month of being tortured continuously by wind and rain has completely _ruined_ his - 

Gentle fingers caress his head and Crawly freezes, his heart, which doesn’t necessarily need to beat, almost jumping out of his chest.

Aziraphale clucks his tongue, murmuring, ‘Oh dear, it is quite a frightful mess. Hold on…’

And then he is running his soft, precise fingers through the auburn disarray on Crawly’s head.

Crawly swallows, his own hands trembling a little. Memories of the Garden come rushing back to him, memories of blasted trees that weren’t where they should be, and an Angel who had so easily teased and fussed over him.

It had rained then, too. Rained as Aziraphale cheekily plucked offending leaves out of his hair, leaving Crawly stunned.

He is stunned now, too. He has, every now and then, thought back to the incidents in the Garden; from the Fruit, to the first rain he had waited out with this same Angel. He hadn’t dared to dream that there would ever be a repeat of, well, _this_.

But it’s happening again. Now. 

Crawly pinches himself. He is not human and he doesn’t dream, even when he indulges in sleep; but he had needed to do that, to make sure this is real.

Aziraphale is slowly brushing out the knots in his hair, his fingers slow and gentle so as not to hurt him. He pulls his left hand down through a small section of Crawly’s hair, right to the very tips of it. The strands, damp and heavy, nearly reach the middle of his back, and Crawly shivers as Aziraphale’s knuckles drag down between his shoulder blades, right between his wings.

The tremble doesn’t go unnoticed and Aziraphale abruptly stops. Crawly can’t bring himself to turn and look at him, but he imagines that the Angel must look how he did the first time he touched Crawly’s hair. He can imagine the slow dawning of realisation on Aziraphale’s face, the realisation that touching a Demon like this is not… well, not done.

Not by any Angel anyway.

Not any Angel except for Aziraphale.

There is a slow intake of breath, and Crawly can tell that Aziraphale is opening his mouth, possibly to apologise, possibly to fumble his way through some excuse, and he will remove his hands from Crawly and move away and -

Crawly doesn’t want him to.

The realisation sinks in and weighs heavily on his chest. He wants Aziraphale to continue, to pet his hair, to touch him. 

His tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth and Crawly can’t remember any words, much less speak them. He does the only thing he can manage right then. 

Slowly, carefully so as not to startle, he leans back, pressing gently against Aziraphale’s hand resting between his shoulder blades.

Aziraphale is completely still. His hand, resting against Crawly, twitches. 

Crawly tilts his head back as well, towards Aziraphale. He deliberately closes his eyes. 

Surely, the silent invitation, the explicit _permission_ , cannot be missed, can it?

‘I…’ Aziraphale clears his throat. ‘I can … that is, um … I could, maybe, help you. With, er, your hair, I mean. Undo the … uhm. Otherwise it’d be painful if, if your hair catches on something or …’ Crawly can almost hear the physical effort Aziraphale exerts to stop his rambling.

‘May I?’ He says finally, his voice almost steady.

Crawly makes a non-committal noise, but presses even more against Aziraphale, almost leaning into his body. His fingers are shaking in his lap, and he fists them in his clothes again. 

It takes almost unbearably long, but Aziraphale finally moves. The hand he left on Crawly’s back slides up, caressing between his wings again, and Crawly can’t stop another shiver dancing down his spine. But Aziraphale doesn’t stop this time, burying his hand in Crawly’s hair, and Crawly straightens his posture, keeping his head tipped back and pulling his wings around him so as to give the Angel better access.

Aziraphale takes his time. His right hand joins the other and Crawly enjoys the feeling of how the Angel cards his fingers through his damp locks, undoing the knots with utmost care. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything until he comes across one of the braids that hang carelessly to a side.

‘Might be easier if I undid your braids’, Aziraphale comments, already working on the first one.

Crawly stiffens and opens his mouth to protest, because he _likes_ those braids. He had painstakingly taken the time to weave them into his hair, liking the rather messy effect they had against his curls.

As if sensing his crisis, Aziraphale says softly, almost in his ear, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll braid them again’, and suddenly Crawly can’t think and snaps his mouth shut.

He is even more startled when he feels _heat_. What the heaven-?

‘Don’t worry,’ Aziraphale murmurs. ‘It’s alright.’ 

It is then Crawly realises that the Angel is working another minor miracle, exuding heat through his fingers as they worked, gently drying Crawly’s hair in the process.

His eyes close at the sensation and Crawly bites his lip, muffling the pleased sigh.

Aziraphale gives his hair another brush through with his fingers after all the knots are gone. Crawly leans into the touch and is disappointed when Aziraphale doesn’t caress him again. But the Angel has started on his braids, and Crawly sits still, simply enjoying the feeling of his fingers as Aziraphale carefully and methodically redoes the three braids. Crawly notices that Aziraphale’s braids are more loose than how Crawly prefers them, but he says nothing, unaware of the soft smile on his face.

“There. All done.’

Disappointment pools in his stomach when Aziraphale removes his hands from his hair. Crawly turns around to face him, reaching up a hand to touch one of his braids, and unhappily aware that the Angel will not be touching him again. There is no need to.

His hair is dry and soft to the touch, and the braids, he can tell, aren’t really too bad. He distractedly wonders where Aziraphale had learnt to braid hair; the Angel keeps his locks short and practical, and Crawly feels an unpleasant flare in his chest as he imagines, for a moment, Aziraphale’s fingers in someone else’s hair. 

But he doesn’t ask and, seeing the somewhat abashed look Aziraphale is wearing, the thought is quick to leave his mind.

‘Uh.’ Crawly clears his throat, lowering his hand. His dark red curls fall over his shoulder.

‘Yes. Well. It… it shouldn’t be painful anymore,’ says Aziraphale, wringing his hands together.

It’s all Crawly can do not to grab them and press them against his hair again. He swallows, wondering if it will ever happen again.*

(* He had wondered the same thing after the Garden, and he knows, even now, that the memories from today will haunt him as persistently as the Garden does.)

‘I … er.’ Crawly looks at Aziraphale, who looks back at him uncertainly. Clearing his throat, Crawly suddenly snaps his fingers.

Aziraphale blinks, looking down in surprise at his now-dry clothes. He twists his head, rustling his miracle-dried wings behind him.

He turns back to Crawly, whose own clothes and wings are now dry as well, and beams.

And Crawly knows that Aziraphale has, for the second time that day, recognised and accepted his silent gratitude.

Crawly can’t bring himself to say anything, and Aziraphale doesn’t need to hear it. 

This is enough for now. 

Returning Aziraphale’s dazzling smile with a crooked one of his own, Crawly settles next to him, and the two of them gaze out at the rain, waiting out the second great storm of their lives together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part should be Golgotha-era, another favourite hairstyle :D (I just really have a thing for long hair on Crowley mmkay)
> 
> I also put the footnotes in brackets in this chapter, with the asterisk. In the first part, I simply used double-spacing plus asterisk. Which works better, do you think?
> 
> Please do share your thoughts on the fic <3 I'd love to hear your opinions, and ideas too if you want to share


	3. Golgotha (Jerusalem)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, I can confirm that this fic has Officially Gotten Out Of Hand. It started with a >2K chapter, and now this one is 7K+! 
> 
> But here it is - Golgotha!Crowley serving Looks. When I started this fic, I wasn't sure how the Golgotha hair petting was going to unfold. But what I ended up writing? It's my fav so far.
> 
> Quick note before we start:  
> I was in the middle of this chapter when I saw Neil Gaiman confirm that Crowley was presenting as female at the Crucifixion. I'd already seen fan speculations and I really loved the idea, so I incorporated that here. But I was torn between using he/him or she/her for Crowley for the longest time, due to Some Stuff that happens in this part.  
> Eventually I decided to keep the male pronouns, because the Stuff involves Aziraphale not taking note of how Crowley is presenting until the Stuff happens, and I thought keeping the male pronouns highlighted that more. Honestly, I'm still a bit torn, but here is Golgotha.

The setting sun paints the clouds in swathes of red and fire, as if the skies themselves are bleeding in solidarity with the young man whose life’s blood spatters the dusty sands below him.

The sight of his limp body, sagging from the nailed wrists and feet, churns Crowley’s stomach, but he can’t look away. Nor is he alone in his rapture; the gathered crowds are yet to thin, their eyes drawn to the terrible spectacle.*

(* Humanity veers between goodness and wickedness, their free will rending them unpredictable and fascinating, Crowley has found. They can do the kindest deeds without divine persuasion, or commit the cruelest atrocities without evil temptation.

But where the two opposing ends of this spectrum share common ground, is at the macabre. Whether sickened by it or revelling in it, the human gaze is drawn to it - and few are the sights more macabre than a man, adorned in a crown of thorns, nailed to a cross.)

There is a morbid, almost perverse, beauty to the whole thing, Crowley thinks. The man has long breathed his last, his final whispers still a prayer for forgiveness - not for himself, never for himself - yet his sheer presence permeates the cooling evening air, as sharply as the dark silhouette of his crucified body cuts against the bloody sky.

Such a bright, young thing he was, Crowley muses. And what a dark, cruel fate this is.

‘Surely his immortal soul is at peace now. In a better place.’

Crowley starts a little at the voice, almost having forgotten the Angel’s presence at his elbow. He hadn’t realised that he muttered his last thoughts out loud.

Beside him, Aziraphale too has yet to tear his gaze away, but despite the matter-of-fact manner of his reply, he cannot keep his anguish out of his face. For as long as Crowley has known him*, the Angel has worn his heart on his sleeve, if you can forgive the human expression. And from his eyes, Crowley can tell that Aziraphale, though he may not allow himself to admit it in as many words, shares the Demon’s sentiments about the poor fellow.

(* Since the Beginning. At times, during their encounters, Crowley still feels awestruck when the thought strikes him that they have known each since the creation of the Earth. Alright, since a _week_ after the creation of the Earth.

But with the exception of its planetary skeleton, nothing that exists in this world is as old as they are, or the unnamed, intermittent yet enduring liaison between them. Crowley has never enjoyed such a timeless intimacy with anyone else. Not in Hell, not even before that.)

‘I assume you’re referring to Heaven,’ Crowley returns drily.

‘Of course. Where else would such a pure soul be destined for?’

‘Perhaps to a _better_ Heaven than the one we know.’

Aziraphale finally glances at him, his mouth turned down in mild disapproval. ‘That was quite uncalled for.’

Crowley keeps himself in check, biting back every negative comment he has to say about his former abode. The Angel is no fool; Crowley can tell that Aziraphale, despite how desperately at times he clings to his Heaven doctrine, knows deep down that Upstairs policies can be … dubious.

But Aziraphale clings to it nonetheless, holding on with the vehemence of someone who will be lost and adrift otherwise. Because he has never known anything else, Crowley thinks somewhat bitterly.

‘You know I speak the truth, angel,’ he says instead. ‘What real happiness does your lot Up There offer? Aside from having a pretty view, I’ll give you that.’

‘Crawly - _Crowley_ ,’ chides Aziraphale, frowning slightly.

‘Am I wrong?’ Crowley can’t help the challenge that inflicts his tone.

‘You don’t know -’

‘ - what Heaven is like? _Don’t_ I?’ Crowley interrupts, lifting an eyebrow.

Aziraphale looks stricken. ‘I … I didn’t mean it like that.’

Crowley exhales, his irritation leaving with his breath. Aziraphale can be infuriating sometimes, but Crowley can never stay mad at him for a substantial period. He has long since stopped questioning this reality.

‘See, that’s the difference between us,’ he drawls. ‘You’ve only seen one side of the coin.’

Aziraphale appraises him for an uncomfortably long moment. ‘I suppose you’re right. And? How does the other side compare, having seen both for yourself?’

Crowley turns away, eyeing the ominous shadow cast by the looming cross ahead of them. 

‘They’re both more alike than you’d think,’ he says at last, quietly.

Aziraphale doesn’t reply for some time, his expression contemplative.

‘And is the other side of the coin the better option for someone like him, in your learned opinion?’

Crowley has to marvel at how unpatronising Aziraphale sounds, despite the seemingly sardonic choice of words. The Angel is looking directly at him, his face impassive but his eyes betraying the genuine curiosity within.

The Demon licks his lips, unwilling to lie*, but the only answer he has is not something he wants to give either.

(* If Crowley allows himself to think about it, he will realise that Aziraphale is probably the only being in all of creation that he _hasn’t_ lied to. What a failing in a Demon.)

But Aziraphale doesn’t let him off the hook, and fidgeting under the force of his open gaze, Crowley admits, ‘It is never the better option.’

Oh _,_ if Hell were to ever overhear him acknowledging such a thing!

Aziraphale is blinking owlishly at Crowley’s answer. But his train of thought appears to be on the same track as Crowley’s, for his response is not a supercilious concession of Heaven’s obvious status compared to Hell, but,

‘Oh! Is - is that wise to say out loud? Won’t your superiors be, well, _upset_ with you?’

Crowley feels a warm rush, and he struggles to hide the pleased smile threatening to cross his face at Aziraphale’s candid concern for him. 

‘No one’s listening.’

‘Are you certain?’

Crowley grapples with his veil, averting his eyes from Aziraphale as he needlessly rearranges the dark shawl around his shoulders.

‘Yes, angel.’

‘Right…’

Aziraphale still sounds worried - for _him_ \- and somebody help him, because if the Angel keeps acting like this, Crowley doesn’t know for how long he can hide his, well, not very demonic inclinations towards his companion.

His self-control frays by a few threads with their every meeting.

‘It will be dark soon,’ says Crowley, more to change the subject than anything else. He runs his fingers through the curling locks of hair spilling out of the right side of his veil. ‘We should head back into the city.’

He remembers too late that he doesn’t know whether Aziraphale is staying in Jerusalem or just passing through.

To his relief, Aziraphale doesn’t react unfavourably to his suggestion. With one last forlorn look at the cross, he turns and falls into step with Crowley.

They don’t speak again until they are well within the city walls, strolling aimlessly along the narrow streets. The residents of the low-lying limestone houses are already preparing to set up their oil lamps for the night.

It would seem like the sun was setting on a perfectly normal day if it were not for the heavy atmosphere stifling the city. It is still light out, the last rays bathing the rooftops in hues of fire and gold, but Crowley can’t shake off the tension in the air.

He can almost taste trouble brewing, as if the repercussions of Golgotha are galloping towards the quiet city.

‘You said you met him.’ Aziraphale’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

‘Hmm? Oh, yes.’

‘Did you ever…?’ The Angel trails off, his brows furrowed.

‘Did I ever what?’ Crowley prompts. Aziraphale is wearing the hesitant look he gets when he wants to ask something but fears that it may offend Crowley.* He can guess where this is going.

(* This is a bit of a grey area with Aziraphale. Over the millennia, Crowley has picked up that the Angel’s hesitation, or blatant lack thereof, when it comes to possibly offending Crowley depends on situation. Most of the time, he hesitates, looking contrite as he poses the offending inquiry.

The rest of the time - which is to say, when Aziraphale turns to his holier-than-thou Heaven spiel, as he always does when Crowley is indiscrete with his disdain for Upstairs - his tongue is quite callous. Crowley tries not to take it personally when Aziraphale gets like that. From Aziraphale’s perspective, he is simply speaking the Truth, hardly realising how his remarks about Fallen Angels cut deep.)

They pass a few more houses before Aziraphale pulls himself together to ask: ‘Did you ever tempt him?’

Crowley had guessed the question but it still sends him reeling a little. He smoothes down the long skirt of his simlah as they walk together.

Aziraphale doesn’t push for an answer. If Crowley doesn’t say anything, he knows that the Angel won’t ask again. He can just drop it right now.

‘I didn’t.’

Aziraphale looks at him with wide eyes. Crowley can’t blame him.

‘Were you not ordered to, or it was not possible -?’

‘Oh, I was ordered to,’ Crowley barks out a laugh. ‘Tempting the Second Adam to evil? Hell couldn’t order me fast enough. Especially since I’d done such a _stellar_ job with the first.’ His lip curls in derision.

‘What happened?’ Aziraphale asks, his voice very soft.

‘I … I met him. A couple of times. Had a few conversations here and there.’ Crowley frowns. ‘Sometimes I suspected he knew what I was.’

‘Is that why…?’

‘No, he never pushed me away. Welcomed all my attempts at talking with open arms.’

Crowley falls silent again for nearly a whole minute. His voice is low as he finally admits,

‘Yeshua was fascinating. He was so full of life and passion and sincerity, just utterly convinced in his beliefs. He never doubted.’ Crowley swallows. ‘Exactly the kind of soul Hell thirsts to corrupt.’

The kind of soul Crowley should have thirsted to corrupt.

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Because he was…’ And here is where Crowley decides to draw the line. He can’t answer that; not without baring himself whole to Aziraphale. He simply can’t.

‘Let’s just say it’s not to everyone that I show all the kingdoms of the world,’ he says shortly, burying down the rest of his answer.*

(* Yeshua had been fascinating, yes, but not because he was the Light of the World or any of the other reasons Crowley listed.

It was because Yeshua had been Good. Crowley felt it from their first meeting. It was the kind of Good he used to associate with Heaven. The kind of Good that Angels _should_ be. The Good he hadn’t felt from them since before his Fall, and even after … that is, until he met the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.)

When Crowley is finally able to look Aziraphale in the face again, he finds the Angel staring with an expression he has never seen before. It makes Crowley involuntarily halt in his tracks.

‘What?’ He reaches up nervously to pull his veil closer about his head.

Aziraphale faces him, standing in the mouth of the alley they have stopped at. He looks radiant as the last of the sunlight plays off his features. His eyes, blue as a midday sky, are soft and glowing as he gazes at Crowley, warm with an emotion the Demon doesn’t dare name. There’s an infinite tenderness to the curve of Aziraphale’s mouth; affectionate almost.

Crowley’s hides the tremor in his hands among the folds of his black simlah. Aziraphale has him pinned under his gaze and Crowley can’t look away.

‘What?’ He repeats; he means to snap but the word comes out in a breathless hiss.

‘You treated him better than his own people did,’ says Aziraphale.

‘Uh.’

‘You were good to him.’

Crowley sputters. ‘I - that - uh, shut it! I wasn’t - be quiet, you, what if someone overhears?!’

‘You said no one is listening.’

Crowley glares at him, ignoring his heart - taking on more human traits by the century, he swears - pounding like war drums in his chest.

‘Yeah, well … what did your lot do then? For him?’ He retorts.

Aziraphale shakes his head. ‘He didn’t need any miracles from me; he had his own. Nor did he need any nudges in the right direction; he was already on the path, and as you said, never wavered.’

He pauses, biting his lower lip.

‘I focussed my … attention … on those around him instead.’

Crowley blinks. ‘His followers?’

‘And enemies. I tried my best to make them see, make them understand…’ Aziraphale runs a despairing hand over his face. ‘It wasn’t enough. I couldn’t stop them … what happened today…’

He looks down at his feet, the anguish from earlier taking over his expression, and Crowley just barely restrains himself from reaching out to him. He is somewhat surprised to learn that the Angel had, in his own way, tried to avert Yeshua’s fate. He would have thought that Aziraphale would stay back, allowing the Great Plan - the thing he always falls back on - to unfold, unhindered.

And yet, at the same time it’s not surprising. Not really. With any other Angel, perhaps, but not Aziraphale.

‘It wasn’t your fault, angel.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘You know what it’s like, for both of us. We can only influence, not interfere. And you did your part.’

Aziraphale looks up. ‘But you didn’t do yours. Won’t you … be in trouble?’

Crowley can’t suppress his smile this time, his heart leaping at the creases of worry on Aziraphale’s face.

‘Only if they find out.’

Comprehension dawns on the other. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t.’

‘Why not? They only care about the paperwork.’

‘So you’re just going to lie, saying you tempted him?’

‘I’m a Demon, aren’t I?’ Crowley shrugs, casually throwing out the phrase Aziraphale has occasionally directed at him over the centuries. The Angel has the grace to look abashed.

‘It won’t matter,’ he continues breezily. ‘I’ll say that I failed since Yeshua was … well, Yeshua. Hell will get it. They knew they’d never get _his_ soul, anyway, no matter what they threw at him.’

‘Right.’ Aziraphale is staring at him like _that_ again, and Crowley looks down, feeling the heat in his cheeks.

‘Would’ve been a hell of a commendation, though,’ he adds, mostly to hide how flustered he is.

‘Did you just curse? I was under the impression that Demons _blessed_.’

Crowley can almost hear the wry smile in Aziraphale’s voice and he scowls at the ground.

‘Shut up, angel.’

They have just started walking again, listening to the quiet voices floating out of the open windows hewn into the stone walls of Jerusalem’s houses, when the sound of rougher, less welcome voices greet them.

‘Hey, beautiful!’

Crowley and Aziraphale turn towards it at the same time. There are three men, drunk from the sound of their loud laughter, lounging about just inside a darkening alley leading off from their street. 

‘Where are ya goin’, darlin’? Come an’ have some fun with us!’

It takes a good five seconds for Crowley to realise that they are addressing him. He hisses under his breath, realising that his conversation with Aziraphale has led him to drop his guard, weakening the shield he usually carries in his aura to escape human notice.

‘Are they talking to - oh.’ Aziraphale’s gaze is fixated on Crowley’s simlah and veil, as if he’s noticing the Demon’s feminine garb for the first time. Understanding crosses his face, followed by reproach which he directs towards the drunkards.

‘Really now,’ he huffs under his breath. His frown deepens when one of the men makes lewd noises at Crowley. ‘What rotten behaviour. They should be ashamed of themselves!’

The drunkards have quickly paled into a minor irritation next to Aziraphale’s righteous ire on his behalf. Crowley is rather flattered.

He is about to cast a hasty miracle, to escape the men’s notice and resume his enjoyment of the Angel’s company, when a sudden thought strikes him. He holds back for a moment; the idea is reckless, with every potential for backfiring.

But it is too attractive to pass up. He may never get such a chance again.

Dramatically turning away from the harassers, Crowley steps deliberately into Aziraphale’s space, placing an intimate hand on his arm.

‘Let us hurry home now, husband,’ he says, making sure his voice carries across the street. ‘It is getting late, and the children are waiting.’

Aziraphale goes still.

Behind them, Crowley can hear the men. They have abruptly stopped with the cat-calls, muttering disappointedly to themselves now.

At least one half of his idea is working. The other, more important half, though … Crowley wonders, fear clawing at his chest, if Aziraphale might never speak to him again.

But then Aziraphale softens, the tension seeping out of his shoulders. He gives a slow smile, his eyes revealing that he understands Crowley’s little ploy.

The innocent facade of it, anyway.

‘Right you are, my dear,’ he says, matching the volume of his voice with Crowley’s. ‘And the children must be hungry. I certainly am.’

Crowley sighs in relief at Aziraphale’s response, smiling demurely at him as the men in the alley grumble even more. He is disappointed when Aziraphale moves his arm, dislodging Crowley’s hand, but then his breath catches in his throat when the Angel winds it around Crowley’s waist instead.

He is caught by surprise, reflexively resting his palm against Aziraphale’s chest as he finds himself pulled into the Angel’s side. But once his mind catches up, he is certainly not _unwilling_. Crowley curls in even closer,* revelling in the Angel’s warmth.

(* In their human forms, Crowley has some height on Aziraphale, but he entertains the thought of resting his head on the Angel’s shoulder. It would certainly piss off the drunkards even more, though they wouldn’t do anything now that Crowley is, in their eyes, a married woman accompanied by her protective husband.

But there is only so much he can get away with, even for a farce. For now, he is simply content to stay in Aziraphale’s one-armed embrace, feeling the curve of him pressed against his side.)

‘Shall we, my dear.’ And then Aziraphale is guiding Crowley down the street, arm still wrapped around his waist. Crowley wouldn’t complain even if he never removed it.

When they speak again, they have put several streets between them and the alley.

‘I wonder why men like that do that,’ mutters Aziraphale, his voice irate and disapproving.

Crowley raises his eyebrows. ‘Men like that do a lot of things, angel. You need to be more specific.’

‘Prey. On women.’

‘Prey?’ Crowley repeats. ‘That’s an interesting word for it.’

‘What would you call it, then? As males, they may be stronger than females. Generally. But if the stronger abuse their strength to intimidate and overpower the vulnerable, isn’t that preying?’

‘I suppose,’ Crowley acknowledges, intrigued.*

(* Conversations with Aziraphale are never boring. Crowley has never met another being, Angelic, Demonic or even Human, who can hold a candle to him.)

Aziraphale sighs unhappily. ‘I’ve seen it happen everywhere, in every age. I do what I can to, to change their ways, but… well, some change for the better.’

 _Most don’t_ , is left unsaid.

‘To be blessed with strength is to bear the responsibility of protecting those who cannot,’ he continues softly. ‘But people like those men back there? They take such _vindictive_ pleasure in doing the exact opposite…’

Crowley lifts his gaze to the sky. Stars are twinkling to life, the blood-red shades of sundown deepening into the blues of dusk.

‘For the record,’ he mutters, ‘it’s not our lot’s doing.’

Aziraphale starts, his fingers on Crowley’s waist tightening. ‘I did not mean to imply -’

‘I know,’ Crowley says. ‘But I just want to make that clear. I didn’t invent that behaviour.’

He can feel Aziraphale’s eyes lingering on him. He braces himself for the inevitable question.

‘Did something happen, to make others assume you had a hand in it?’

Crowley grits his teeth. ‘Take a guess, angel.’

‘Crowley…’

‘The First Temptation, Aziraphale. Remember? Eve. Tree of Knowledge. Forbidden Fruit.’ Crowley waves an arm frustratedly. ‘I don’t know if it’s true, but I’ve heard talk that some men believe women are, well, evil. Because of the whole Original Sin business. For all I know, that might be what started all this … preying.’

‘I see,’ Aziraphale says slowly. ‘But … surely you didn’t plan -’

‘Of course not,’ snaps Crowley. ‘They told me to kick up some trouble in Eden. I popped up. She was the closest one around. I did my job. That’s it.’

Grimacing, he adds bitterly, ‘Maybe I should’ve saved my whispers for Adam instead.’

He expects Aziraphale to say something then, perhaps about how he could not have known or it must have been part of the blessed Plan; anything the Angel might think would be comforting. But he does nothing of the sort, just strokes Crowley’s side soothingly for a few seconds. Crowley wonders if Aziraphale is even aware of the arm he still has around him.

‘Well,’ says Aziraphale at last. ‘I’m sure there is hope for the future.’

‘A future where women can walk home alone safely at night, without fear? You really believe it will happen so easily, _husband_?’ Crowley can’t resist the opportunity to tease him, and he hides a smile when Aziraphale gives him the closest thing to a dirty look he will deign to wear.

‘It is a rather serious topic, my dear.’

‘I’m not saying it isn’t,’ replies Crowley more sombrely, trying not to fixate too much on how Aziraphale just called him ‘my dear’ again.*

(* Crowley will later, at his leisure, fixate on that detail for three whole weeks, and have a meltdown for two of them. He will overanalyse the two words, pondering on the fact that Aziraphale first called him as such while pretending to be his ‘husband’. There had been no need for the endearment later, so why would the Angel call him ‘my dear’ during one of their normal interactions?

Sometime during the second week, he will recall the way Aziraphale looked at him when he learnt of Crowley’s time with Yeshua. He will begin to wonder if Aziraphale has finally found something in him, just like how Crowley found something in the Angel from the blessed Beginning.

Eventually, before the end of the third week, Crowley will decide that it doesn’t matter. If Aziraphale wants to address him affectionately whereas any self-respecting Angel wouldnever be caught dead with a Demon, well, _he_ will certainly take what he can get.)

‘I’m just saying,’ Crowley continues seriously, ‘humans are slow to change. Even by our standards. Today is a prime example of that, innit? They didn’t like the changes Yeshua was bringing, and all _he_ said was to be kind to one another and, well…’

Aziraphale looks downcast, and Crowley adds with more feeling, ‘But perhaps someday, yes.’

He covers Aziraphale’s fingers, still resting on his side, with his own hand. He means for the touch to be comforting, but the effect is the exact opposite. With a look of mild horror and apology, Aziraphale quickly removes his arm from around the Demon.

‘Oh! I, I’m so sorry, Crowley, I didn’t realise - how long was I…’

 _Not long enough_ , Crowley thinks, already regretting. The spot above his hip where Aziraphale’s hand rested until ten seconds ago already feels cold.

Aziraphale wrings his hands together, looking at him apologetically. As if Crowley had minded, as if Crowley weren’t wishing that he could press up against the Angel again.

Exhaling through his teeth, the Demon adopts a crooked smile. ‘Are you finished already with protecting me, then?’

Aziraphale looks embarrassed as they resume their stroll.

‘We both know you don’t need me to protect you.’

Crowley hums. ‘But it worked wonders, didn’t it. Those men couldn’t shut up fast enough when they thought you were my…’ He trails off meaningfully.

‘You could’ve just as well snapped your fingers and made them forget your existence.’

‘Ah, but where is the fun in that? The playacting was much more enjoyable.’ Crowley boldly takes Aziraphale’s arm then. He rests his hand in the crook of the Angel’s elbow, like how a woman might hold her husband’s arm as they walk together.

For a moment, he fears that he’s overstepped a line and Aziraphale will shake him off. But the Angel surprises him again, allowing the touch.

’You’re quite incorrigible, you know that?’ There’s a smile hidden in his voice.

‘For a Demon, that’s a compliment of the highest order.’

Aziraphale does smile this time, glancing at him. Crowley’s heart thrums with pleasure, and he allows himself to press in closer.

He is wondering how far his luck will pan out today and if he ought to chance asking Aziraphale to have a drink with him, when the sound of raised voices reach them, disturbing the quiet night.

‘Oh, what now?’ exclaims Aziraphale. Exchanging a look, they hurry towards the source of the commotion.

Turning down another street, where men and women are apprehensively poking their heads out of their doors, the two of them emerge onto a dusty square, where a lot more people are gathered. The two of them hang back on the outskirts of the crowd, peering through the firelight as they try to make sense of what is happening.

At first glance, it appears to be a quarrel. Or perhaps that is an understatement, as several people are involved, shouting above each other’s voices to be heard.

But as Crowley picks apart the words and obscenities flung angrily through the air, the uneasier he feels. Abruptly he recalls the tension he felt earlier in the evening, as he walked back into Jerusalem with Aziraphale; that otherworldly sense of trouble brewing. And here it is.

‘Oh dear,’ murmurs Aziraphale next to him, and he knows the Angel has come to the same realisation.

‘We should go,’ mutters Crowley, tensing with every second as he watches the people - roughly two groups of them if you knew what to look for; men who follow Yeshua, and those who persecuted him - grow more and more heated, bearing down on one another. 

‘We should do something! There must be some way to help.’

‘Aziraphale!’ Crowley rounds on him sharply. ‘They have _weapons_.’*

(* Granted, Aziraphale and Crowley have powers stronger than that of mankind’s arsenal. But that doesn’t change the fact that it is not for them to interfere directly in human affairs.)

The Angel’s jaw tightens as he takes in the scene in front of him, his eyes roving from the angry faces to the lengths of wood and metal rods the people are wielding.

‘This is not for us to deal with,’ Crowley snaps when the Angel doesn’t move.

‘But -’

‘Don’t you get it?’ Crowley hisses, pulling on his elbow. ‘This was inevitable. The moment they nailed Yeshua to that cross, this was bound to happen! It’s the repercussions of Golgotha, angel, and we’ve already played our parts. That’s done with and over. _This_ is purely of the humans’ own making!’

Aziraphale swallows, his face pained. He opens his mouth, but before he can get another word out, all hell breaks loose.*

(* It’s a phrase Crowley will invent later on, and he’ll be mighty proud as it gains traction.)

Crowley cannot say which side threw the first punch - or the first swing - but once ignited, there is no stopping the riot. The few folks who ventured into the square out of curiosity are quick to flee the ferocious fight, ducking back up the streets to safety. Crowley is about to follow their example, but he and Aziraphale had ventured too close to the crowd and, before he knows it, they are overwhelmed by the fight.

‘Aziraphale!’ shouts Crowley as the Angel slips from his grasp, lost among the jostling bodies as the mob spreads through the square. Punches are thrown, sticks and rods are swung, and there are the sickening sounds of wood and metal meeting flesh amidst the bellowing roars of men.

Crowley blesses as rioters shove against him, trying to free himself from the crowd. He still can’t see Aziraphale.

‘Aziraph -!’ His breath is knocked out of him as someone drives a strong fist into his gut. The pain and surprise don’t even register before Crowley is thrown down, his face shoved into the dirt. 

Wheezing, he twists on to his back. There is a man looming over him, hands pulled back to deliver another blow. There are no sides or reason to the fight anymore; no distinguishing between bystanders, enemies or, for all appearances, a woman. Crowley realises he’ll be caught in a barrage of attacks - possibly beaten to discorporation - if he doesn’t escape.

Drawing in a painful breath, he manages to snap his fingers weakly.

His attacker stumbles and falls back with a yell of surprise, and is immediately set upon by more bloodthirsty men.

Struggling to his feet, he angrily pushes back at another body that comes crashing into him. He forces his way through the square which, in the blink of an eye, has become a battlefield. He stops breathing because it’s still painful and tries to focus.

‘Aziraphale!’ The name has barely escaped him when he spots the Angel, who is kneeling by a fallen man. He is waving his hand over the man’s split head, and the skin knits back together.

Crowley hurries forward but just then spots a rioter making for Aziraphale, shouting. The Angel looks around sharply, but the man is too close - only to disappear seemingly into thin air before he can bring the rod in his hands down on Aziraphale.

As if having sensed Crowley’s last-minute miracle, Aziraphale turns and immediately locates him across the square. He stands, lips curving up in a grateful smile, but then his face twists, his eyes landing on something behind Crowley.

Crowley senses the danger too late to defend himself. He can _feel_ the blow coming and instinctively braces himself, prepared for the unpleasant sensation of being discorporated.

It never comes.

Opening his eyes slowly - when did he close them? - Crowley turns around. His jaw slackens.

Aziraphale is there. Crowley cannot imagine how fast the Angel must have moved to reach his side in time. He has engaged the attacker, who is holding what appears to be a broken half of a wooden pole in his right hand. Aziraphale has the man’s right wrist in a grip that looks painful even to Crowley; his free hand is twisting the man’s left arm behind his back, and that looks even worse.

As Crowley watches, dazed, Aziraphale bodily manoeuvres the man around, twisting the wooden pole out of his fingers. He flings the terrified man aside with one hand and whirls around, wielding the pole as if it were a sword.*

(* Crowley sometimes forgets it - because, well, Aziraphale doesn’t typically _look_ it - but the Angel was clearly chosen to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden, with a flaming sword to boot, for a good reason.

Crowley is always in awe when he remembers, in situations like right now, just what Aziraphale is actually capable of - how _dangerous_ he can be - if he so wished.)

Aziraphale is at his side in an instant, grasping Crowley’s forearm. ‘Are you all right?’

The Demon manages a nod.

‘Let’s get out of here.’

It is easier said than done and Aziraphale finds himself swinging the broken pole again, this time to block another man, holding a flaming torch, from charging the two of them down. Crowley hisses, in both fury and desperation, and with a wave of his hand, sends the man hurtling back several feet.

Aziraphale lowers the pole and Crowley grabs his shoulder, muttering, ‘Here, let me -’, and with a snap of his fingers, casts a miracle to hide the both of them from human eyes. In the midst of such a riot, with so many people in their immediate presence, it takes more power than the usual shield Crowley casts about himself to pass amongst humans unnoticed.

Aziraphale senses the nature of the miracle immediately. He doesn’t waste another second; taking the hand Crowley placed on his shoulder, he leads the way swiftly through the crowd, which discreetly parts for them. Without looking back, the two of them duck into one of the streets leading out of the square, almost at a run, and they don’t slow down until the clamour is only a faint echo in the background.

They stop in the shadows of an alley between two rows of houses. The only light is from the twinkling stars above, with a touch of orange from the oil lamps inside the quiet residences. It hardly matters, the two of them can see perfectly in the dark.

Crowley tries breathing again and is pleased to find that the pain from being punched has subsided. He is even more pleased to realise that Aziraphale is still holding on to his hand.

The Angel notices at the same time, and just like earlier, retracts his hand with an apologetic air. 

_Does it_ look _like I mind_ , Crowley wants to ask, somewhat miffed, but knows better than to voice it.

‘That was something,’ mutters Aziraphale, looking down at the broken pole he forgot to discard. He gingerly leans it against the alley wall and, with that simple action, assumes the appearance of being quite harmless again.

‘At least we managed to escape discorporation. Gotta count for something, eh?’ Crowley reaches up to his shoulders, and then frowns. ‘My veil…’

‘What?’ Aziraphale turns to him.

Crowley runs his fingers uselessly over his shoulders and exposed hair. ‘I must have dropped it in the square.’

‘Surely you can get another one.’

Crowley huffs. The veil is of little consequence, but with all the unpleasant events of the day - what a long day it has been! - the irritation prickles at him.

His eyes land on Aziraphale and he softens. The Angel is the only pleasant thing to have happened the whole blessed day.

Crowley blinks when he realises that Aziraphale has stepped closer to him.

‘You have sand in your hair.’

The Demon reaches up again and wrinkles his nose when his fingers come away dusty.

‘Ugh. Must have happened when that buffoon punched me.’

‘You were hit?’

‘Yeah, and I fell. Nothing too bad, though,’ says Crowley, trying not to show his reaction at Aziraphale’s concern for him - again! He is liking this side of the Angel too much, and to witness so many displays of it within a single day - Crowley doesn’t know how much he can handle at this point.

‘Are you hurting?’

‘No, I’m fine. Right as rain.’

Aziraphale looks carefully at him before accepting his answer with a nod. But he doesn’t move away; on the contrary, he takes another step closer and, before Crowley can process anything, brushes his hand through his unruly hair.

It is all Crowley can do to stop his jaw from dropping open.

‘Angel,’ he whispers.

‘You have sand in your hair,’ Aziraphale repeats by way of explanation. He meets Crowley’s wide eyes and pauses, his fingers caught in the Demon’s red curls.

‘Unless you don’t want my help…?’

It takes a short eternity for Crowley’s brain to resume functioning again. Aziraphale starts to pull away, and Crowley blurts, ‘No, it - it’s fine!’

Aziraphale stills, and Crowley stammers on, barely coherent, ‘I, I mean, it - it would be, uh, easier, yeah, easier for you to, I mean - you can see it better, and … yeah, I can’t see my own hair that well, so, so…’

Aziraphale hums and, with another nod, returns to what he was doing, focusing on thehair on the right side first. Crowley wisely shuts his mouth.

For several seconds, it is quiet between them, Aziraphale brushing out the sand and dust from Crowley’s long hair as precisely and methodically as he had untangled and braided it, aeons ago, on a storm-tossed ark in the middle of a never-ending ocean.

How many lifetimes has it been since then?

But, Crowley thinks, his heart hammering, it is not quite the same as back then. That unprecedented moment on the ark was intimate, yes, but Crowley had been in a more advantageous position then. He hadn’t been facing Aziraphale, able to hide whatever emotions his face betrayed from the Angel as they touched.

Now, he is standing bare and vulnerable in front of Aziraphale, his self-control his only defence to hide the cacophony of feelings inside him. His heart beats so hard he fears Aziraphale can hear it, and he fists his hands into the sides of his simlah; he can never control the tremble in his fingers when Aziraphale touches him like this.

‘Crowley.’

‘Hm?’ He manages.

‘You’re going to stare a hole right through my head, my dear.’

Crowley chokes a little. That was - that was simply not fair. Aziraphale _can’t_ stand in his space, so close that Crowley can feel his warmth, and touch his hair and just _say_ something like that.

His mortification is near paralysing and Crowley thinks he deserves a commendation - from Hell? Heaven? Anywhere? - for simply being able to keep a straight face and say,

‘I was just thinking back to how you were waving that pole around.’

Aziraphale looks at him with surprise.

‘You looked like you were about to smite that man.’ Crowley forces a snigger that sounds only a tiny bit hysterical.

The Angel clucks his tongue as he shifts his focus to the left side of Crowley’s head. Crowley shivers as Aziraphale’s fingertips ghost over the shell of his ear.

‘And what about you? You made a poor man disappear.’

‘He was about to attack you!’ Crowley protests.

‘And I appreciate you saving me,’ Aziraphale says soothingly, running his fingers down the length of Crowley’s hair. ‘But where did you miracle him away to?’

‘The desert.’

‘Crowley!’

‘What, I didn’t send him too far out. He’s only a few hours’ walk from the city.’

‘Crowley.’

‘OK, a day at most.’ Crowley sniffs. ‘He deserves it.’

Aziraphale looks at him again at that, lips twitching as he tries to suppress a smile and appear disapproving.

Crowley grins at that. ‘And I’m sure the other fellow would’ve also deserved a good smiting.’

‘I wasn’t about to smite anyone and you know it.’

‘No, you just _threw_ him away, like he was a sack of figs.’ Crowley smirks when Aziraphale makes a protesting sound at the description. ‘So, it looks like you were wrong earlier.’

‘About what?’

‘I did need you to protect me, after all.’

Aziraphale looks startled, his fingers stilling. He bites his lip. ‘And … you protected me.’

Crowley’s teasing smirk dims a little, the colour rising in his cheeks. Aziraphale holds his gaze for a long moment before returning to his hair.

Done with both sides, Aziraphale pauses before reaching around Crowley’s neck, gathering up the locks that fell down his back. He meets Crowley’s wide eyes briefly as he brings them over his left shoulder, and then proceeds to brush them clean as well.

Crowley tries very hard not to think about the fact that Aziraphale could have just stepped behind him to reach that hair, but instead made the conscious decision to stand even closer in front of the Demon.* He just can’t deal with the implications, if there are any, right now.

(* That detail will later join Crowley’s three-week fixation on Aziraphale addressing him as ‘my dear’. It will also contribute to the little meltdown Crowley will have during that period.)

He then belatedly realises that Aziraphale could have really just miracled the sand away. Crowley could have done it himself. But Aziraphale is instead choosing to…

His hands are trembling again and Crowley casts around for something, anything, to distract him from these thoughts.

As a Demon, you’d think he’d have the luck of the Devil. He doesn’t.

As it so happens, Aziraphale’s proximity meant that there really wasn’t much else that Crowley could focus on; his search for distraction only lands his attention on Aziraphale’s mouth.

He’s biting his lower lip lightly, brows furrowed in concentration.

Crowley almost blesses out loud.

The thing is, in all his years and years of tempting humans, Crowley has strictly stuck with doing so from the sidelines. He doesn’t feel the need to take part in what he creates, content to just get the ball rolling and watch the humans fall into sloth or gluttony or lust. He does his job, occasionally stretches the truth in memos to Downstairs, gets a commendation if his exaggerations are particularly impressive, and that’s it.

Crowley doesn’t get involved with humans, despite enjoying conversations and witty repartee with some of the more fascinating minds. Their lives are over in the blink of an eye, and just the idea of it feels _messy_. He’s never been interested.

But staring at Aziraphale now…

Crowley licks his lips. He dares to wonder what it will be like, what it feel like, to kiss Aziraphale.

He has only spared fleeting thoughts on carnal desires. It’s such a _human_ thing. He doesn’t really need it.

But in that tangent, he doesn’t need to eat, drink or sleep either. Yet, Crowley indulges in all three, simply for the pleasure of them.

What’s to say that indulging in another human habit won’t be just as, if not more, pleasurable? If it were with Aziraphale?

‘There. All clean.’

Crowley doesn’t know if he should be relieved or disappointed when Aziraphale draws away right then, sweeping Crowley’s tamed curls back over his shoulders. But he certainly wants to scream.

Aziraphale looks quietly pleased as he surveys Crowley’s hair. The Demon flounders for words. The appropriate response, he knows, is ‘thank you’, but Crowley is still too flustered, by what happened and his own desires, to speak.

‘Everything alright?’ Aziraphale asks when Crowley does nothing but gape hopelessly at him.

For the sake of doing _something_ , Crowley reaches out. Aziraphale blinks and Crowley isn’t sure what he intends to do, but his body is apparently smarter than his brain - his hands grip Aziraphale’s turban, adjusting it.*

(* It doesn’t need adjusting.)

The Angel’s expression clears. ‘Ah! Thank you, Crowley.’

There is a beat and then Aziraphale suddenly makes a sweeping motion with his hand, pulling a dark garment out of the air.

Crowley’s eyes widen when he recognises the veil he lost back in the riot.

It is ripped and dusty, until Aziraphale gently shakes it out; then the veil hangs from his fingers, jet black and good as new.

‘You didn’t have to do that.’ Crowley is finally able to speak.

‘It’s really no trouble.’ 

Crowley is about to reach for it when Aziraphale steps forward, just as he had done earlier. He realises what is about to happen, but that doesn’t lessen the surge of feeling in his chest when Aziraphale carefully wraps the veil around him, covering his head and smoothing it down his shoulders.

Aziraphale leans back for a moment, appraising him with a critical eye. He frowns.

‘What?’ Crowley asks nervously.

‘Hmm. Ah, yes.’ Lips curving up, Aziraphale reaches for him again. He slips his hand between the veil and the right side of Crowley’s face, fingers brushing past his cheek and ear until they sink into his hair. Gathering a loose fistful, he pulls the long curls out of the veil, letting them cascade over Crowley’s chest, red against black.

‘Much better,’ says Aziraphale approvingly.

Not for the first time that night, Crowley is lost for words. Clearing his throat, he tugs the veil closer about him.

Aziraphale has finally stepped away to a respectable distance. He is still smiling.

Trying to sound normal as opposed to on the cusp of swooning, Crowley casually asks, ‘Well? How do I look then?’

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow, his gaze suddenly intense. He tilts his head.

‘What was it that the rude drunkard called you?’

What - oh. _Oh_.

And suddenly Crowley can’t fucking breathe.

_Beautiful_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly, can you believe this fic started with one (1) dumbass demon walking into a tree, and now it's a monstrous trip down not-very-accurate History? Me neither.
> 
> I did some research into the clothing/food/housing of Jerusalem for the time period of this chapter, including the era-centric name for Jesus (I decided on the Hebrew name 'Yeshua'), but it was by no means a deep-dive. So if you're here for historical accuracy, sorry peeps, this ain't the fic for ya ^^  
> (Ah but my Internet history after I was done writing this chapter was no joke, I can tell you XD)
> 
> I really adore this chapter, tho. For obvious reasons, yeah, but I like how it turned out rambly and meandering; kinda echoes my Crowley's personality esp around Aziraphale
> 
> Comments are love and food for the writer's soul <3 Let me know what you guys thought :D  
> Also feel free to hit me up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/RV_Phoenix_Soar) or [Tumblr](https://phoenix-soar.tumblr.com)


	4. Soho (London)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part took a while. I was stuck on it for days, partly because I began this chapter with only a vague idea, and partly because I went on vacation during which I got all of a paragraph's worth of work done ^^;
> 
> But then inspiration struck and I really love how this part unfolded. This takes place in Soho, after Crowley and Aziraphale get drunk post the Antichrist-delivery.
> 
> (I considered taking on the Globe Theatre scene, especially since their costumes were epic. But it didn't fit the pattern of this series, which is kind of a continuation of the historical scenes in the show. The Globe Theatre scene ends with Crowley exiting, and I wasn't really inspired on how to continue it. So I decided to skip ahead to the Soho scene.)

Aziraphale likes the Earth as much as Crowley does. He likes people; the pernicious, imaginative, _disastrous_ , _wonderful_ beings that they are. Crowley knows he is not the only one averse to the world becoming the battleground for the armies of the Host and Horde, with humanity as nothing but meaningless casualties.

But in the face of the blessed Great Plan, Aziraphale needs a bit of wheedling* to admit that he doesn’t care for Armageddon as well.

(* Aziraphale always needs a bit of wheedling to come around to Crowley’s ways.

It is their dance from the Beginning, the steps so well-worn and bone-driven that Crowley doesn’t even have to think to tread around Aziraphale. Crowley suggests, Aziraphale declines, Crowley rephrases, Aziraphale concedes. A familiar, millennia-old dance.)

So when Aziraphale finally makes his decision, already visible in the set of his jaw before he holds his hand out for Crowley to shake, the Demon can’t fight off his grin; a mixture of relief and satisfaction.

Aziraphale’s expression softens after Crowley lets go. Crowley drinks in his smile as the Angel allows himself to properly welcome the new accord they have just struck.

‘Godfathers,’ he breathes, positively radiant at the thought. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ 

The angelic smile he wears is such a juxtaposition to those ironic words that Crowley’s heart flutters in confused endearment.*

(* Another familiar, millennia-old dance.)

He can’t hide the warmth in his gaze - naked and vulnerable without his sunglasses - as he quips, gently teasing, ‘It’s not so bad once you get used to it.’

He’s not put out when Aziraphale’s beam slides off. The topic of Falling is not one the Angel makes light of, whereas Crowley - well, once you’re Fallen, there’s not really much to do except make light of it.

‘Hmm. Do you have any ideas then, on how we get to the boy to begin the influencing?’

Crowley exhales loudly, puffing out his cheeks. After a solid six hours of drinking with Aziraphale and simultaneously trying to convince him to stop Armageddon, his mental capacity is nowhere near capable of coming up with new ideas. Not without a refresher, anyway.

As if sensing Crowley’s unspoken answer, Aziraphale gets up. He briefly considers the refilled bottles of wine on his desk before wisely deciding against it.

‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

Crowley makes an approving noise as he sprawls more comfortably on the bookshop’s old sofa. For all that Aziraphale’s flair for fashion is questionable at best, his taste in tea is as impeccable as his taste in wine.*

(* Especially reds. Crowley prefers white wines himself, but he can never say no to Aziraphale’s well-stocked liquor cupboard.)

Ten minutes later, nursing a steaming cup of Darjeeling, he is still drawing a blank on the ideas front.

‘How about we send human agents to influence the child?’

‘Human agents to influence _how_?’ Aziraphale shoots back from where he has taken a seat on the other end of the sofa. He sips his tea, frowning thoughtfully. ‘As we are dealing with the Antichrist, surely it’s more pertinent for us to, er, be more directly involved?’

‘I s’pose,’ Crowley grunts.

‘To ensure the best results, of course.’

‘Of course.’

They lapse into another silence, still as lost as the other. Crowley downs the rest of his tea, but other than the scalding rush down his throat, it does little else in the way of inspiring any great plans.*

(* No pun intended, of course.)

Sending away the empty cup to Aziraphale’s desk with a flick of his fingers, Crowley sags even lower into the sofa, spreading his legs bonelessly out in front of him. He catches Aziraphale’s glance in his direction and would have overlooked it if not for the way his lips quirk up.

‘What?’ He lolls his head towards Aziraphale, crocking an eyebrow.

‘Hm? Oh, nothing.’

‘Spit it out, angel.’

Aziraphale sets his cup down on the saucer. ‘It’s really nothing of importance, my dear.’

‘Tell me anyway,’ Crowley says, ignoring the usual happy flare in his chest at the Angel’s age-old endearment* for him. ‘Who knows. Whatever’s on your mind might be the key to our elusive answer.’

(* Two thousand years later, Crowley is still unsure if it’s _actually_ an endearment.

After six millennia of innumerable, delightful, strained, fateful meetings, Crowley knows in his bones that what they have is … _good_. It should set off all his demonic alarms. They are good for each other. They have trust _,_ and their enjoyment of each other’s companionship has transcended the business boundaries of their Arrangement.

Crowley knows all of this, and in light of that, it seems silly that how Aziraphale _addresses_ him is what leaves him stumped. Does his ‘ _my dear’_ s underscore their friendship in the most Aziraphale-esque way - or does it signify anything more? Crowley sure as heaven can’t tell. He stopped trying sometime during the fifteenth century.)

Aziraphale scoffs with a roll of his eyes. ‘Really? I doubt that my thinking of your frankly _atrocious_ sedentary positions as oddly serpentine, would spawn any ideas on how we might approach the Antichrist.’

Crowley seizes up. 

Aziraphale ignores the visible reaction and conscientiously finishes his tea. He makes to stand, but Crowley miracles Aziraphale’s empty cup to join his own on the desk and yanks him back down by the wrist because _hang on a blessed second_.

The Angel squawks a little when he’s pulled down on to the sofa, closer to Crowley than before. Their knees knock together.

‘Crowley, what are you doing?’

‘What am I doing? What did _you_ just say? That might be the single most outlandish thing you’ve ever said to me.’

‘Well, you insisted I speak my mind,’ Aziraphale huffs, but his cheeks are reddening.

Crowley stares at him, his pupils dilated. ‘I didn’t realise you pay such close attention to how I _sit_ , angel,’ he drawls.

Sedentary positions, honestly.

‘And _serpentine_? Really?’ His lips curve up in spite of himself.

Aziraphale gestures at how Crowley is sprawled out. ‘Is it an inaccurate description? You could be draped over my sofa as a snake and it would hardly look different.’

Crowley begins to laugh but stops just as quickly. ‘Wait, what did you mean, _atrocious_?! There’s nothing atrocious about how I sit!’

‘You’d be hard pressed to find a normal person who manages to _lounge_ , every single time without fail, on any piece of furniture even remotely chair-like.’

Crowley splutters, offended. ‘I - you - _well_. Just because you can’t manage it…’ he almost swallows his tongue, cheeks hot as he realises how utterly daft he sounds.

Aziraphale is the one amused now. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t _possibly_ mimic your special manner of sitting, dear boy.’*

(* He, in fact, _can_ , as Crowley will discover eleven years later when the two of them play with fire.)

Crowley grumbles to himself, his voice trailing off. He slouches even further into the sofa, just to spite Aziraphale. As he does so, his thigh presses against the Angel’s and Crowley stiffens, but Aziraphale makes no motion to move away. On the contrary, he gives Crowley a side-long look and says pointedly,

‘See? Serpentine. And absolutely atrocious.’

‘And _you_ alliterate,’ the Demon returns with a chortle and relaxes, enjoying the heat of Aziraphale’s leg resting against his own.

‘Maybe I ought to be my ssserpentine ssself,’ Crowley continues in a sibilant murmur,turning to Aziraphale with a grin. He slings his left arm on the back of the sofa, almost resting on the Angel’s shoulders. ’And haunt the _garden_ of the Dowlingsss’ essstate, lying in wait to tempt an Antichrissst that wandersss assstray.’

Aziraphale refuses to acknowledge Crowley’s witty* attempt at a Garden joke.

(* Crowley certainly thinks so.)

‘Then I fear you will have to lie in wait for quite a while,’ he sniffs. ‘I doubt the humans would allow a toddler, much less an infant, outside without supervision.’

‘Aww, don’t ssseep the fun out of everything, angel.’

‘Even if, for argument’s sake,’ Aziraphale barrels on, ‘you manage to meet the child, how often do you think he would roam the grounds meeting a snake before realising it’s not done? Or the adults find out?’

Crowley grumbles. ‘Fine, fine. Looks like I need a way to spread my whispers inside the house, then.’

There is a beat and then the two of them turn sharply to each other, faces lighting up with the same inspiration.

‘That’s it!’

‘It … it would surely work, wouldn’t it?’ Aziraphale shifts, turning to face Crowley fully on the sofa.

Crowley tries to ignore how the movement makes Aziraphale’s right leg press flush against his left.

‘Assuming we are on the same page, seeing as we haven’t spoken our ideas aloud yet,’ Crowley drawls, ‘I don’t see why not.’

Aziraphale waves a careless hand. ‘Of course, we’re on the same page. We need daily access to the Antichrist as he grows up, which means access to the family house. Obviously, we’re taking up work there.’

Crowley blinks. So far, they are on the same page. ‘Er, yes. But work as what?’

‘The help, of course,’ Aziraphale says briskly.

Crowley bites back a laugh. ‘The help. Right. Angel, you do realise that _servants_ is a rather archaic concept for this era?’

Aziraphale frowns. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Mm hmm.’ With a lazy smirk, Crowley angles his body further towards Aziraphale. The arm he has on the back of the sofa slips down to rest around Aziraphale’s shoulders, but he doesn’t appear to mind. Or notice.

‘We take up employment at the Dowling’s estate,’ Aziraphale continues, his blue eyes bright, ‘and we can influence the child directly on a regular basis.’

‘Yes, we are in agreement on that. What kind of employment are you considering?’

‘Hmm.’ 

Aziraphale bites his lip, tipping his head back as he thinks. The movement brings the back of his head to rest on Crowley’s arm, and Crowley doesn’t dare move for fear of bringing their proximity to Aziraphale’s attention.*

(* Aziraphale is not the sort to seek physical intimacy. Across their years together, Crowley has learnt to savour every touch he can steal, no matter how miniscule.)

‘I … I fear I am not the most well versed with children,’ Aziraphale muses aloud. ‘It might not do to take up work that requires my presence inside the house too much.’

‘You don’t like children?’ Crowley asks quietly.

‘Oh, I love them, of course.’

‘As per your Angelic nature to love everything in Creation?’ mutters Crowley.

_To love everything from a distance. Impersonal. Even a Demon_ , he thinks to himself bitterly.

Aziraphale doesn’t miss the sudden inflection in his tone.

He turns his face to him, his blond hair dragging on the sleeve of Crowley’s black jacket. His eyes dart to Crowley’s arm then, finally aware of how it is resting on his shoulders, of their legs pressed against each other, and how close together they are sitting.

He looks Crowley in the eye - Crowley suddenly misses the safety granted by his dark sunglasses - but doesn’t move away as he answers, steadily,

‘Yes, Angels are meant to love. But that doesn’t mean I love everything equally. Or even in the same way.’

Crowley goes still.

‘It’s…’ Aziraphale furrows his brow in thought. ‘It’s like the books, for example. I love my books, but that is … hmm, a special appreciation I’ve developed? My love for books cannot be compared to, say, the ducks we feed at St. James’. I love the ducks too, but that is more in line with my innate love for all Creation. Whereas my love for books is -’

‘ _Personal_?’ Crowley breathes. ‘Deep?’

Aziraphale meets his gaze. ‘Yes.’

It takes a long moment for Crowley to realise he is clenching his jaw so hard he’s developing an ache. He takes in an unnecessary breath, forcing himself to relax. Aziraphale’s eyes are searching and Crowley feels naked, as if every thought he has had, every feeling he has harboured, for Aziraphale were laid bare on his face.

He should stop, drop the topic right now, before he gives himself away. But Aziraphale has just revealed something Crowley has wondered about forever - whether Aziraphale can feel a love deeper than his celestial nature dictates, and if so, where that difference falls.

And Aziraphale just admitted that he, in fact, _can_ feel personal love, didn’t he? Granted, his example of choice was his books, but surely Aziraphale’s love - genuine love - extends beyond inanimate things.

Surely Aziraphale can love … some _one_.

He shouldn’t ask. He really shouldn’t. But trapped under Aziraphale’s intense stare, his mind whirling with new knowledge about this being he has known since time immemorial, Crowley finds all his defences stripped away, exposing a weakness he has never allowed to surface before.

‘Have you ever felt as such for someone? Deep, and personal?’*

(* _Does your - friendship? love? whatever it is you feel for me - stem merely from your nature, or does it come from a genuine place_?)

As soon as the question leaves his lips, Crowley wants to claw the words out of the air and cram them back into his mouth. He suddenly doesn’t want to know.

He’s afraid to know.

But Crowley has the power to only stop time, not rewind it. So he sets his jaw and braces himself.

Aziraphale looks startled. He glances aside, his eyes flitting from the empty tea cups and wine bottles on his desk, to the tomes and leather-bound volumes on his numerous shelves, and down to where their legs are touching. He wrings his hands together in his lap.

Crowley waits, barely breathing, but Aziraphale doesn’t look at him. A few seconds later, he realises that Aziraphale is deliberately avoiding his eyes.

‘Angel.’

‘I … I don’t feel that kind of love for children,’ says Aziraphale, his voice low. His eyes are fixed on their pressed knees. ‘I do care for them, of course, but it’s like you said; it comes from my nature. It’s general. Which is why I don’t think I’d be suited to work too closely with the boy, inside the house.’

Crowley exhales, his free hand, resting on the sofa’s armrest, tightening into a fist.

‘That’s not what I asked, angel.’

Aziraphale looks up then, and his eyes are dark and sharp. It makes Crowley catch his breath in his throat.

Because Aziraphale is not being naive or obtuse. He knows, knows full well exactly what Crowley is asking.

‘Must you ask or do you really not know, my dear?’

His response, paired with his pointed tone, sends Crowley’s mind reeling. His breath escapes him in a stunned gasp, and he barely restrains himself from placing a hand on his chest, over his pounding heart.

It’s not _really_ an answer, Crowley thinks faintly to himself, and yet it _is_. Aziraphale’s words are heavy, with meaning, with feeling; they are pressing down on his lungs, and yet his heart is soaring, alight with _hope_. A vice, as far as Demons are concerned; one that Crowley has always had in abundance.

He wants - oh, he wants too much. He wants to reach out for Aziraphale, wants to place his fingers on his cheeks, and whisper all of his confessions against his lips.

He does none of these things.

He knows, by now, not to go too fast.

With a slow exhale, Crowley tears his gaze away from Aziraphale’s, reminding his body to relax and sink back against the sofa.

‘Hmm. Well. Your books are more deserving than bloody ducks. They’re a blessed blight on the world.’

There is a beat, but then Aziraphale accepts Crowley’s offer of an out, back into familiar, comfortable territory.

He gives a light laugh. ‘Perhaps the ducks would be more fond of you if you stopped dunking them, dear boy.’

‘Blasted things curse at me.’

Aziraphale smiles. ‘Doesn’t stop you from feeding them.’

Crowley grunts and tips his head back. He is acutely aware that Aziraphale has not moved from his spot, his shoulders not-quite-stiff under Crowley’s arm, his thigh glued to Crowley’s leg.

‘So.’ Crowley licks his lips, which are suddenly dry. ‘If you don’t want to work inside the house, what kind of employment do you plan to take up at the Dowlings?’

‘Something that involves the grounds, I suppose. A gardener, perhaps. I should meet the boy often enough that way.’

Crowley’s mouth curves up at the thought. Between the two of them, Aziraphale is certainly not the one with an affinity for plants. Not that the Angel can’t pull off gardening if he has to, but. Well. Who has the most lush, verdant houseplants in all of London? Not Aziraphale.

It is as if Aziraphale heard his thoughts. He looks drily at Crowley, intoning, ‘You find it amusing.’

‘Well, it is a little funny,’ Crowley grins. ‘To go digging in the dirt, from selling books. Or _not_ selling books is more accurate, I guess.’

‘I didn’t always own this bookshop,’ says Aziraphale indignantly. ‘I _do_ have other skills.’

A memory strikes Crowley, of Aziraphale in a dusty square, radiant even in the midst of a bloodthirsty mob, his eyes alight with all the fury of Heaven as he wields a makeshift sword; every bit the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

‘Oh, I don’t doubt it,’ Crowley murmurs, an unexpected shiver dancing down his spine. If they couldn’t prevent Armageddon, if Aziraphale were forced to join the ranks of the Heavenly Host - well, a Principality or not, Crowley knows that Aziraphale can give any warrior angel a run for their swords.

Can, but _will_ he?

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, him with his blond hair and light eyes and the affronted expression that is fading by the second. He tries to imagine facing him on the battlefield, tries to imagine Aziraphale with his flaming sword, bearing down on Crowley to smite him - and he can’t.

He can’t imagine meeting Aziraphale on opposite sides.

They’re not on opposite sides.

_We’re on_ our _side_.*

(* Crowley knows it. Knows it in spite of _everything;_ in spite of the fact that he is of Hell and Aziraphale of Heaven; in spite of Aziraphale’s fear of the consequences they might face for _fraternising_ ; in spite of the rare instances when Aziraphale still insists, weakly, that they are _enemies_ by definition.

Definitions don’t matter. They can always be redefined. And Crowley and Aziraphale have six thousand years’ worth of history to redefine what they are to each other.)

‘Crowley.’

Crowley blinks, Aziraphale’s voice bringing him out of his grim thoughts. ‘Uh. Yeah?’

‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, yes,’ mumbles Crowley, waving his free hand carelessly. It takes him a moment to meet Aziraphale’s eyes again. ‘So, a gardener, eh? Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine, but if you need any tips…’

‘Oh, yes, you keep houseplants, don’t you?’ Aziraphale looks thoughtfully at him. ‘I’d almost forgotten. It’s been a while since I visited your place.’

Crowley shrugs, not very bothered by the thought. In all honesty, he likes dropping by Aziraphale’s bookshop for tea or meeting up at St. James’ Park for their occasional rendezvous. His Mayfair flat is, by all means, ‘home’ for when he is between jobs, has nothing else to do or wants to sleep. But Crowley feels no personal attachment to it, except for his plants maybe.

‘Here’s a freebie: make sure the blessed things know you’re the boss from the get go and you expect nothing but perfection from them.’

Aziraphale blinks. ‘Pardon?’

‘Unless you assert your authority, they will start slacking off left and right,’ says Crowley darkly.

‘Right,’ says Aziraphale bemusedly, struggling to catch on to Crowley’s thought process. ‘Well, I might try a, um, more kindly approach to the Dowlings’ garden.’

‘If you go soft, they will never learn,’ Crowley objects. ‘Just you watch, there will be spots and yellowing and stunting everywhere!’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ Aziraphale looks amused now. ‘But enough about that. What about you?’

Crowley considers, biting his lower lip. ‘I don’t mind working inside the house, close to the boy. It wouldn’t bother me.’

‘You always did have a tender spot for children,’ remarks Aziraphale. He is looking at Crowley gently, his smile soft.

Crowley has seen that look on Aziraphale’s face intermittently and he never knows how to deal with it. ’I don’t have a tender anything,’ he snaps, for lack of a better reaction.

‘Hmm. So, what will you be? A scullery maid?’

A startled guffaw escapes him. ’You’re positively _medieval_ , aren’t you, angel?’

‘I just wanted to make you laugh,’ says Aziraphale with a smile.

Crowley blushes.

‘Well. I’d rather do something that involved less dish washing and more involvement with the child, so -’

‘A governess?’ Aziraphale pipes up, grinning unashamedly.

‘Oh, you’re doing it on purpose now,’ Crowley groans.

‘I did it on purpose the first time round too.’

Crowley rolls his eyes. ‘No, Aziraphale, I will not be taking on a role that went obsolete a century ago. I was thinking more of a …’

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. ‘Yes?’

‘A nanny,’ Crowley finishes.

A few seconds pass during which Aziraphale appraises him with an unexpectedly serious look. And then he smiles, quick and disarming.

‘I think you’ll do wonderfully well as a nanny, my dear.’

‘Y-you think?’ Crowley asks, surprised.

‘Of course. You are fond of children, for one thing,’ says Aziraphale, ignoring the protesting sound Crowley makes, ‘and you will look splendid in the part, I’m certain.’

_That_ definitely catches Crowley’s attention. He raises an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Was there ever any doubt?’

Crowley scoffs. ‘ _I_ never had any doubt that I’d look fantastic. I’m just somewhat, er, taken aback that _you_ think so.’

Aziraphale looks pointedly at him. ‘I’ve seen you in your … _various_ getups over the centuries, my dear. I’ve not forgotten what you looked like in them.’

If Crowley had blushed before, his face is positively on fire now. ‘Angel’, he exclaims with a laugh bordering on hysterical.

Aziraphale relaxes further into the sofa, the back of his head pressing against Crowley’s arm again as he smiles at the Demon. ‘You looked especially lovely in that simlah, if I recall right,’ he muses. ‘Jerusalem, wasn’t it? The veil was a nice touch.’

Crowley laughs harder, simply because he doesn’t know how _else_ to react to Aziraphale’s unexpected compliments for the handful of times Crowley chose to present as female instead of his preferred male appearance.

‘I’m glad you approve,’ he says when he is finally able to catch his breath. ‘It’s just as well that I be the nanny and you the gardener, then, wouldn’t you say?’ He adds with a mischievous grin at Aziraphale.

The Angel raises his eyebrows, and decides to take the bait. ‘Oh?’

‘Since it’s clear who, between us, can _really_ pull off a skirt.’ Crowley grins.

Aziraphale snorts, but he doesn’t look offended. ‘I’m not arguing with that.’

Crowley regards him, lips stilled pulled up in a smile. He can barely remember a time when Aziraphale hasn’t worn his usual male appearance. At this point, it is more a characteristic of the Angel, Crowley realises. Aziraphale picks one thing he likes and sticks with it, for the long haul. Such as his hair, always short and practical, and that two-hundred-year old coat he just can’t bear to part with.

‘Pity,’ Crowley murmurs, sagging further into the sofa and allowing his torso to slide slightly more towards Aziraphale, bringing their faces even closer. ‘I think you’d look rather nice too.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Aziraphale replies. His eyes slide from Crowley’s face up to his hair, and his lips pull up in another one of those quick smiles that Crowley adores.

‘You’ve got the hair to pull off the nanny too,’ Aziraphale comments, and idly reaches up to hook a finger around a fat strand of hair falling over Crowley’s right cheek.

In that moment, Crowley discovers that it doesn’t matter how many times this has happened before, or indeed how many centuries have passed since the last time - his heart reacts the same way, almost jumping out of his chest.

And just like every other time, Crowley’s breath catches, his body going rigid as all of his senses zero in on Aziraphale’s touch as he plays with the strand, running it between his thumb and forefinger.

Crowley follows the movement, swallowing. His mouth is dry.

‘You grew out your hair again,’ Aziraphale murmurs, his eyes fixated on the auburn locks. His gaze is full of admiration and Crowley is sure his face is as red as his hair. ‘It’s been quite a while since I saw you with long hair.’

‘Yes. Um.’ Crowley clears his throat. ‘Funny how things come back in fashion.’

‘So this is the new, hmm, what do you call it, the _in_ thing, now?’ Aziraphale’s hand moves to the right side of Crowley’s face, catching more curls around his fingers.

Crowley’s hair is not as long as he used to keep it, but it is tamer than it used to be, the curls more on the wavy side now, in keeping with the latest trends, of course.

Crowley opens his mouth to answer, but forgets the words when the back of Aziraphale’s hand caresses his cheek. He sucks in a breath and bites his lower lip, catching himself before he leans into the touch.

For an Angel, Aziraphale can be absolutely torturous - and infuriatingly oblivious while he is at it.

Or maybe not that oblivious. At Crowley’s sharp intake of breath, Aziraphale’s entranced gaze breaks away to focus on Crowley’s face. The Angel blanches and quickly pulls his hands free of Crowley’s hair, lowering it to his lap.

‘Oh, my dear boy, forgive me! I - I wasn’t thinking, I … I got ahead of myself.’ Aziraphale clears his throat, folding his hands in his lap. ‘I shouldn’t have been so forward, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be, I didn’t mind,’ Crowley mumbles, loosening his death grip on the armrest. He hadn’t even realised when he grabbed it.

‘Pardon?’ Aziraphale stares at him.

Too late, Crowley realises what he’s just said. His first reaction is to bullshit something and pretend Aziraphale misheard him, but even the thought of bullshitting Aziraphale is an insult to the Angel’s intelligence - and besides, it dawns on Crowley then that, if their plan with the Antichrist were to fail, they have only eleven years left. Six thousand years together on Earth, and only _eleven_ more - and he still hasn’t _said_ anything to Aziraphale.

He has _done_ a lot of things, sure; he doesn’t think his actions have always been subtle in hiding his true inclinations towards Aziraphale - but he’s never actually said anything. The closest Crowley came was that fateful night in his Bentley three decades ago, with a tartan-patterned flask cradled in his lap as Aziraphale gave him a brittle smile, his sad eyes speaking volumes in a language Crowley didn’t understand.

But he did understand the words Aziraphale gave him. _You go too fast for me, Crowley._

It has been so many years since then. They have gone longer without contact, certainly, but faced with the new prospect that Crowley may have only eleven more to spend with Aziraphale, thirty years feel like a millennium.

Is it too fast still, to say something?

As surely as Crowley knows that he would happily spend another six thousand years as Aziraphale’s friend if they had such time, he also knows that he would regret never saying anything if their time were to run out. Human lifespans pass in the blink of an eye. Eleven years? It’s nothing.

So he looks at Aziraphale, licking his lips nervously as his heart picks up the beat again, and repeats, louder,

‘I said don’t be sorry, because I didn’t mind.’ He pauses, taking in Aziraphale’s widening eyes.

‘I’ve never minded, angel. Not once.’

Aziraphale looks at him in silence for so long that Crowley wonders if he’s made a mistake.

When Aziraphale finally reacts, all he says is a soft, ‘Oh.’

‘Oh,’ Crowley repeats, disheartened. ‘What does ‘oh’ mean?’

‘I don’t -’ Aziraphale clears his throat, looking as self conscious as Crowley feels. ‘I don’t really know how to - what I’m supposed to…’

Crowley looks away, easing his arm out from behind Aziraphale’s shoulders and leaning away, his face burning. But he’s already at the end of the sofa, and their legs remain pressed together.

‘No, wait,’ says Aziraphale quickly, catching his retracting forearm with his hand. ‘I didn’t mean - don’t go.’

Crowley allows the hold on his arm, but he keeps his eyes fixed on his knees. He is mortified and his instincts are, much to his shame, telling him to flee. But he remains as he is, waiting for Aziraphale to speak.

‘Um. So.’ Aziraphale hesitates before venturing, his voice suddenly very low, ‘So … you like it? When I…’

Crowley wants to discorporate on the spot. He grits his teeth, looking at anywhere else but Aziraphale.

‘It’s nice,’ he mutters, and that is all he can manage at this point.

‘Hmm.’

The _hmm_ is almost as bad as the _oh_ and Crowley wants to snap at him. But the words dissolve on his tongue when Aziraphale, without warning, snakes his right arm up over Crowley’s back, his fingers skimming over his shoulder blades before sinking, blissfully, into his hair.

Crowley’s breath escapes in a low shudder, a tremor running down his spine as Aziraphale, gently, carefully, cards his fingers through his hair, his blunt manicured nails scraping along his scalp.

They don’t say a word for how long Crowley doesn’t know, as Aziraphale continues to pet his hair, his fingers soft and precise, ever so often catching pleasantly on his curls. Slowly Crowley becomes aware that Aziraphale is still holding onto his forearm, having replaced his right hand, which is currently in Crowley’s hair, with his left. He is leaning into Crowley’s side, their legs no longer the only point of contact; Aziraphale’s chest is pressing into Crowley’s upper arm, his chin just shy of resting on his shoulder. Crowley can feel his breathing, hot and steady, against the shell of his ear.

Another tremor runs through him. This is, somehow, more intimate than any other such moment Crowley has shared with Aziraphale before, and it isn’t limited to just the physicality of it. He had finally said something, and Aziraphale … recognises it. Crowley is certain of it.

He has not said anything back, but … he is speaking. With his fingers in Crowley’s hair, his leg pressed to Crowley’s, his torso brushing Crowley’s arm, his warm breath in Crowley’s ear … he is speaking and Crowley listens, his eyes squeezed shut, focussing solely on the touches.

Aziraphale’s fingers pull on a lock of hair, not harshly, and Crowley hisses under his breath.

‘I … did that hurt?’

‘No.’ _Don’t stop._

Whether Aziraphale heard his unspoken request or not, Crowley doesn’t know. Either way, he doesn’t stop and Crowley breathes in relief.

He can’t fully explain what’s happening right now, but he has a feeling it’s not something that will repeat. Regularly, at least. Biting his lip, his tips his head back, eyes still closed, lips twitching as Aziraphale takes advantage of the better access given. He will enjoy this while it lasts.

‘Angel,’ Crowley says, his voice just above a whisper.

‘Hmm?’ Aziraphale’s breath washes over his ear, warm and heady.

‘I’ve never seen you with long hair, I don’t think.’

‘I’ve never felt inclined.’

‘No? But,’ Crowley swallows, ‘you seem to like it.’

Aziraphale’s reply makes him shiver as much as his touch does.

‘I like yours.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being a deeper study of their relationship through Crowley's eyes :D 
> 
> I also had an idea involving Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis that I briefly considered including in this chapter, but it didn't really go with the tone. I may or may not write that part as an Outtake, we'll see.
> 
> One more part left for this fic! I'm excited to get on that. 
> 
> Thanks for all your support and love <3 Let me know your thoughts on this chapter ^^  
> Hit me up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/RV_Phoenix_Soar) or [Tumblr](https://phoenix-soar.tumblr.com)


	5. Lower Tadfield & London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaayyy it's finally done! Took me a few weeks, but I hope this final chapter is worth the wait.
> 
> It has references to stuff that happened in previous parts (1, 3 & 4 mostly). This part is also a lil bit of a roller-coaster, feels-wise, because like the rest of this blessed fic, it got Totally Out Of Hand. But I sprinkled a healthy dose of cheese, so, um, _bon appétit_?

There is a dawning sense of calm as the sun approaches the horizon, stubbornly projecting its fiery rays through the rainclouds that have gradually begun to thin in the aftermath of the Armageddon That Was Not.

Adam Young, no-longer-the-Antichrist-and-never-was, is swiftly whisked away by his fretting father. He shepherds his wayward son and yapping dog into his car, and dumps the boy’s bicycle into the trunk, muttering,

‘I don’t know why you’re in trouble, but _you_ most certainly do. You’re grounded, young man!’

The rest of Adam’s friends* quickly follow the car out of the airbase, as do Book Girl and her nerdy-looking Boyfriend.

(* Crowley still hasn’t wrapped his mind around the fact that it took three _kids_ to vanquish the long-feared Horsemen of the Apocalypse. But hey, it took another _kid_ \- albeit originally of partially infernal heritage - to kick Satan Himself back to Hell and avert said Apocalypse, so he’s decided that wrapping his mind around anything can wait for later.)

All of them glance back at Crowley and Aziraphale as they leave, the children and adults alike bidding them understandably awkward farewells in the shape of nods, half-hearted waves, uncertain smiles and, in the case of the bespectacled boy, a solemnly iterated,

‘Actually, I’m not sure what you did to help Adam, but I’m certain you did something, so thank you and good night, sirs.’

Crowley smiles wryly. With the exception of Adam Young*, none of the humans can know what he and Aziraphale are; only that neither of them is what they seem.

(* Unbeknownst to Crowley, Madame Tracy does know exactly what he and Aziraphale are. A human cannot share body and mind space with an otherworldly being without picking up a few things.

Madame Tracy has, in fact, developed quite a fondness for Aziraphale, even forgiving him for recklessly trying to shoot a boy he mistook for evil. Later, after the excitement of the day dies down, she will think more on what she learnt about the Angel during her exciting possession, and slot him under the double categories of _‘Quite a Sweet Dear When You Get to Know Them’_ and _‘Ooh I Wouldn’t Mind Getting to Know Them More’_ in her mind’s list of Interesting Folks she has met throughout her, um, illustrious career.

It’s really just as well that Crowley has no idea about any of this.)

Shadwell and the colourful woman Aziraphale possessed are the last to leave. Aziraphale, manners impeccable as always, takes the woman’s hand, nods to the sergeant, and thanks both of them profusely for their help. She titters and he grunts, and Aziraphale sends them off with a discreet miracle that will have the former’s dying scooter whisk them back to London as swiftly as it brought them to Oxfordshire.

In the end, it’s just the two of them outside the gates of the airbase. The two of them, watching the humans disappear back into their not-former but still-blissfully-ordinary lives.

The two of them standing in the doorway of the rest of their own lives, it dawns on Crowley. And he has no idea where to start.

But as he turns to Aziraphale, who faces him with a bemused but boundlessly exultant expression, Crowley finds he is quite content to linger on this threshold a while longer.

It doesn’t matter that the future is unknown, because it’s the two of them heading into it together.

As it was in the Beginning, and as it was at the End That Didn’t Come.

As it should, and always will, be.

Aziraphale’s bright smile eclipses the setting sun and Crowley lets himself be blinded.

~***~

They have put a good kilometre between them and the airbase when Aziraphale suddenly snaps his fingers.

‘I brought the guard back,’ he explains guiltily when Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. ‘I’m still not sure where exactly I sent him to. But he’s back now and’ - he frowns and snaps his fingers again - ‘in perfect health. Not a hair harmed on his body.’

Crowley just snorts, amused and endeared.*

(* The Demon Crowley’s default state of existence around the Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, since 4004 BC. Mark it down.)

They continue their ambling walk back into Lower Tadfield in companionable silence. Crowley feels the loss of his faithful Bentley with every step and, to distract himself, gazes up at the stars winking to life as twilight falls around them. Even at this hour, he can see more pinpricks of light than are ever visible from London.

In a corner of his mind, Crowley muses that it may be nice to live in a quiet village somewhere, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. He quite likes London, having been settled there for the past two or three centuries, like Aziraphale. But now that the whole Armageddon mess is over and the prospect of Eternity has attained whole new possibilities … well, a change of scenery doesn’t seem so bad.

Though he’d rather _share_ a cottage than live _alone_ in the countryside _-_ but _that_ is a Pandora’s Box for another day when Crowley hasn’t been unceremoniously put through the full spectrum of possible emotion within a matter of hours. Best to put the idea away for now.

Aziraphale glances at him, as if sensing the fluctuating energy of his thoughts. ‘Quite alright, my dear?’

Crowley gives a crooked smile. ‘Quite alright, angel.’

 _Yes, quite alright_ , Crowley thinks later, when they are seated on a bench, sharing a bottle of vintage red he pulled out of thin air as they wait for a bus that will come simply because they are expecting it to.

Things are quite alright as they try to put what happened in the airbase into words; as Aziraphale returns the tokens from the vanquished riders to the delivery man; as they consider the last prophecy of Agnes Nutter and steel themselves for a final thwarting of Upstairs and Below.

Things are quite alright because it’s the two of them. Just like Crowley has known in his bones despite _everything_ that tried to claim otherwise. Just like he reminds Aziraphale, for the second time in two days, gently this time,

‘You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.’

And when Aziraphale meets his gaze in the dark, his thoughts laid bare in the soft lines of his face, Crowley knows that Aziraphale has, at long last, accepted the truth he had denied himself for so long.*

(* Because in his heart, Aziraphale has _known_ , for centuries, that they are the most important being in every plane of existence to the other - and Crowley has known him long enough to discern that early on.

Aziraphale had just never permitted himself to _embrace_ that truth, keeping it at bay with his diminishing faith in Heaven and fear of condemning them both - and Crowley had known Aziraphale well enough to bear the bitter reality in resignation.)

The moment stretches on, as though this acceptance has quietly altered the very fabric of the Universe. There is a shift in the air; Crowley feels it resonate between them, deafening in its silence.

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything else in response to Crowley’s nonchalant* invitation to stay with him. Crowley doesn’t dare ask again.

(* Crowley’s bona fide Hopeful, Anxious Wreck™ of an invitation.)

But when they board the Oxford-but-really-London bound bus and Aziraphale takes the seat right next to him without the slightest hint of hesitation, Crowley knows there had been no need for a verbal response.

Crowley swallows when Aziraphale’s leg and shoulder come into contact with his right side, and blames the narrow seats. But then the Angel carefully rests his hand on the edge of his thigh, where his little finger brushes against Crowley’s own.

Unable to hide his expression, Crowley leans his temple against the window, feeling more exhausted than he can ever remember being.

Happier, too, than he can ever remember being.

After a few seconds, he tentatively responds, stretching his finger to rest on top of Aziraphale’s. In the window, Crowley watches Aziraphale’s reflection close his eyes and smile beatifically.

His unassuming touch warms Crowley all the way home.

~***~

Things are quiet between them after Crowley waves Aziraphale inside his flat.

Things had been quiet since the airbase, really, except for their conversation on the bench.

Silence between them is not a novelty. Crowley is as used to spending an afternoon lounging lazily on Aziraphale’s sofa while the Angel is absorbed in a book, as he is to bickering good-naturedly with Aziraphale over a lunch-drawn-out-to-tea-and-then-dinner at The Ritz.

But this is unlike the companionable silences Crowley knows. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but he feels an undercurrent.

It’s in the way Aziraphale, who had been fairly at ease during the bus ride, is still as a statue in the middle of Crowley’s sparse sitting room, surrounded by the scattered pages of The Big Book of Astronomy.

It’s in the way Crowley’s tongue refuses to form words, suddenly at a loss as he faces Aziraphale, the one constant he has ever known, standing there like a light that suddenly switched on amidst the greys and shadows of his flat.

Aziraphale’s appearance is at odds with every aspect around him, from Crowley’s gaudy throne of a chair to his dramatic sculptures.

And yet, the place has never felt more like home.

As Crowley slowly approaches the Angel, unable to takes his eyes off him, Aziraphale breaks the silence.

‘I see that you used your … insurance.’ His voice goes flat over the last word.

Crowley turns around and immediately winces. He had sent Aziraphale ahead of him after closing the front door, hanging back to put up a few safety miracles to ward off any infernal callers that may or may not suddenly drop in before the two of them had a plan for Agnes Nutter’s prophecy. He’d forgotten Aziraphale would’ve had to step over the remains of Ligur to enter his living quarters.*

(* While Crowley had had to do the same, his thoughts had been far too preoccupied with the Angel waiting for him.)

‘Er, yes.’ Wrinkling his nose at the mess, Crowley turns back to Aziraphale. He stiffens at the look on his face. ‘Angel…’

‘Crowley … that could’ve been you.’ Aziraphale’s face is bone-white, his hands clasped in front of him trembling.

‘No -’

‘Had a _single_ drop touched you -!’

‘I was careful!’ Crowley walks forward, almost takes Aziraphale’s shaking hands in his own, but hesitates at the last second.

‘I took every precaution,’ he says, hands still suspended in the short gap between them. ‘They were coming to kill me and, and, I had to do something - I had to -’

He takes in a deep breath, staring intensely at Aziraphale. ‘It was insurance. You see.’ He waves an arm in the general direction of the door. ‘It was always meant to be insurance. I _told_ you that, more than a hundred and fifty years ago!’

‘You did,’ Aziraphale admits quietly.

‘I never meant to -’ Crowley groans and drops his hands. He can feel the anxious energy* he has been carrying throughout the whole day bubbling up again.

(* One would think that putting an end _to_ The End, against all odds, would dispel thatkind of energy from one’s system for good.

But in the case of a certain Demon, his anxious energy was caught up in not just the Armageddon but a certain Angel. And as long as there is unfinished - or more truthfully, Deliberately Ignored - business between them … well, let’s just stay the Demon will continue to simmer for his entire existence.)

‘C’mon, angel, I _like_ living. A decade ago, I begged you to help me stop the world from ending, and today I literally stood with you at the blessed end of the blessed world to stop it -’

‘Yes, Crowl -’

‘Does _any_ of that sound like someone who wants a _sssuicide pill_?’ Crowley is gaining steam, his words tumbling one over the other in his rising agitation.

‘I understa -’

‘I nearly moved to another _ssstar sssystem_ , that’sss how much I want to live!’

‘My _dear_ -’

‘Heaven and Hell and every blasssted bassstard in between hasss another thing coming if they want me gone, because the _only_ thing that could _ever_ make me not want to live isss - !’

Crowley’s brain catches up with his reckless tongue, halting his words with a sibilant hiss.

The silence that falls in its wake is thick, the tension in the air no longer an undercurrent. Aziraphale is staring at him, his eyes impossibly blue even under the softer lights Crowley prefers to use at night. Crowley realises they are even closer than before, hardly a foot between them, and he doesn’t know if he’s the one who moved during his heated rant or if it was Aziraphale or -

He backs away a few steps, ducking his head.

It’s frustrating that, of all the ways this night could have gone, _this_ is the impasse they have come to. Downright infuriating, really, considering the calm atmosphere they had enjoyed earlier in Tadfield.

It’s not like Crowley had been entertaining any specific scenarios, either, of what would go down after they reached London. Because being with Aziraphale has always been easy, and he’d taken it as read that it would continue to be more so now that they are, unequivocally, on their own side.

But an own side clearly doesn’t mean clear of unsafe territory, and Crowley is toeing the edge of one right now. It is made more dangerous still by the unspoken words between them, but Crowley isn’t going to be the one to break that ice.

Because, he thinks as he looks up at Aziraphale again, between the two of them, _he_ has already said something*.

(* He’d said something that night in his Bentley, half a century ago.

He’d said something that night in the bookshop, eleven years ago.

And he’d said more than something at the bandstand, yesterday.

Had said it again, with desperation and shattered hopes, even today … just hours before he found out what true heartbreak was and wished the entire Universe would go up in flames so he’d never have to feel again.)

No, forget words. 

If his every interaction with Aziraphale - every look, every act, every gesture - has not been positively screaming something for _six fucking thousand years_ , Crowley doesn’t know how much louder he can say it.

The ball is, as the humans say, in Aziraphale’s court. And if he doesn’t want to return it -

‘Crowley…’

Crowley is glad for the sunglasses hiding his eyes. Despite the agonisingly long silence that just transpired, Aziraphale sounds steady. He has not once looked away from Crowley.

‘I believe you. And I’m sorry.’

He gapes at the Angel.

‘I’m sorry for not taking you at your word when you first told me why you wanted holy water,’ Aziraphale says gently. ‘But I’m not sorry for worrying about you. And,’ he steps closer, bridging the distance Crowley has put between them, ‘I’m glad, infinitely glad, that you’re still here … with me.’

Crowley can’t think of a single thing to say, but Aziraphale doesn’t wait for a response. He glances briefly towards the door.

‘I’ll clean up that mess for you.’

‘You don’t have to -‘ Crowley begins, his voice almost a croak.

‘You’re not touching it,’ Aziraphale cuts across him sharply, his eyes flashing.

‘I … fine. I need something to drink,’ Crowley mutters, shifting his weight. He’s still reeling from his near mistake, and Aziraphale’s proximity is not helping.

He is painfully aware that the Angel has yet to respond to the confession Crowley almost let slip. It whirls in the air above them, like a chilly gale heralding an oncoming storm.

With a swift smile, Aziraphale heads over to the door. ‘A drink would be lovely.’

Crowley just grunts as he begins to make his way to the kitchen.

‘Shall we enjoy a glass on - this high up, you have a balcony, don’t you? Shall we get some fresh air?’ Aziraphale calls after him.

‘We don’t need air,’ Crowley reminds him. It’s an unspeakably lame reply but he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

‘But it’s a nice night out.’

‘You’d think the country would’ve given you enough fresh air today to last a century,’ mutters Crowley as he turns into his kitchen. Aziraphale’s tinkling laugh from down the hall tells him that the Angel definitely heard him.

Still, it’s not a bad idea and Crowley figures the cool night air may help him calm down. He’s angry at himself for his blunder; allowing his tongue to run away like that has injected a distinct sense of awkwardness between them. Crowley can really do without any of that.

He didn’t pull out every trick up his sleeve at Armageddon just to disrupt his relationship with Aziraphale.

But Aziraphale hasn’t pushed him away and, when Crowley hands him a wineglass of the finest white he has, his answering smile is earnest. Nerves already calmer, Crowley leads Aziraphale through his flat.

Crowley has a single balcony, spacious and beautiful, that overlooks the sleek neighbourhood on this side of Mayfair. The only problem is that it’s attached to his bedroom.

Only, Crowley tells himself nervously as he opens the door to his room, there is no reason for it to be a problem. Much like the rest of his flat, he barely keeps anything personal here; it’s merely accommodation for his bed.

But as they cross his room to the balcony, Crowley can’t help but glance at Aziraphale, catching him eyeing the king-sized bed and minimalist aesthetic of his room with curiosity. The Angel doesn’t comment.*

(* Crowley doesn’t even know why he’s skittish about what Aziraphale thinks of his room. The decor is not unlike the rest of the flat and, besides, Aziraphale hardly indulges in sleep himself.)

It _is_ a nice night out, but not for a whole lot longer. As they step outside, Crowley gestures at the rainclouds bunching up in the distance, visible over the rooftops.

Aziraphale takes a sip of his wine, not looking bothered. ‘That won’t reach us for a while. We can still see the stars.’

Crowley looks up. The sky overhead twinkles here and there with the bare minimum of stars visible from London. Compared to the stunning vista he witnessed in Tadfield, it’s somewhat disappointing. He tells Aziraphale as much.

‘Mm.’

Silence envelopes them again, but it is soft this time. The kind of quiet Crowley knows and enjoys with Aziraphale. With a slow smile, he braces a hand on the parapet and raises his wineglass to his lips.

‘Do we need to go somewhere with less light pollution or can we see Alpha Centauri from here?’

Crowley almost spits out his mouthful in Aziraphale’s face. The Angel blinks slowly, watching with insulting composure as Crowley splutters, dribbling wine down his chin. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and glares at Aziraphale.

‘What the hel - heav - _ugh_ , what the _fuck_ , Aziraphale?!’

‘Can we?’ Aziraphale repeats.

Crowley stands frozen for a long moment, utter disbelief clashing with another emotion he’s become quite familiar with, and hates, over the centuries.

Hurt.

_…listen to yourself._

_…you’re being ridiculous!_

He puts his glass down on the parapet with a harsh _clink_. ’Don’t … just don’t. I don’t know what you’re playing at bu -’

‘I’m not,’ says Aziraphale quietly. He has straightened, his own wineglass put aside. ‘I would _never_ , Crowley.’

Crowley stares at him, clenching his trembling fingers into fists. In his chest, his heart is a wild, frantic thing.

Aziraphale has turned to face him fully. ‘You wanted to run away to another star system,you said. Because you wanted to live. Why didn’t you go?’

Crowley exhales shakily. ‘I already told you.’ For all that he’d been wasted, he remembers that moment in the bar vividly.

‘Tell me again.’ Aziraphale’s voice is low, his eyes almost luminous in the glow of the streetlights from below.

So we’re really doing this, Crowley thinks to himself, feeling slightly faint. A small part of him is screeching that he isn’t drunk enough, but the other part knows this is the one thing he would never forgive himself for if he didn’t face it in full sobriety.*

(* He even miracles away the almost negligible amount of alcohol already in his system.)

‘Like I said, stuff happened … I’d lost my best friend.’

The words, leaving his lips a second time, don’t hurt a jot less. For a second, he is transported back to the bookshop; he feels the flames licking at him, the scorching heat on his skin, the shocking chill of the water jet that knocks him off his feet.

He can feel everything but the one being whose essence has become as familiar to him as his own. The one thing he has been able to pinpoint, from anywhere in the world, since the Earth was pulled into being from the ether.

And now he can’t.

_I can’t find you … You’ve gone._

Crowley shakes himself out of the memory, blinking his eyes furiously behind his glasses to get rid of the irritating prickling sensation. Aziraphale isn’t gone. He is alive and real and _here_.

He starts when he feels Aziraphale’s hand on his right arm. The Angel is in front of him now, his touch almost a validation of the mantra Crowley repeats again, for reassurance: alive, real, _here_.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aziraphale begins, and Crowley fears his reply would be the same thing he said in the bar earlier. But the Angel surprises him, his voice tender, ‘I’m sorry you were so hurt.’

‘I wasn’ … ’S not your fau-’

‘But _you_ still had the chance to live,’ Aziraphale presses on. ‘The situation was dire. You could’ve gone to Alpha Centauri, but you didn’t … you gave up on living.’

Crowley’s mouth is dry. They are close now, so close, to the crux of what Aziraphale is leading him to.

The hand on Crowley’s arm tightens, ever so slightly. ‘The only thing that could ever make you not want to live … what were you going to say?’

And there it is.

Aziraphale’s face is open and earnest. But it’s the look in his eyes that does it for Crowley; they’re gentle, as they almost always are, but above all, they are pleading and full of … longing.

An Angel who wears his heart on his sleeve, and yet this is the first time he is allowing Crowley to see this. The depth of his affection, of his yearning.

For Crowley.

Crowley’s heart stops beating and then decides it’s safer to stay that way.

Slowly, he reaches up to slide off his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s breath hitches audibly as Crowley reveals his eyes, in all their strangeness and vulnerability. His shield gone, Crowley stands naked and defenceless in front of Aziraphale and replies,

‘Must you ask, or do you really not know, angel?’

Aziraphale breathes in sharply, his eyes wide. Crowley almost smiles when he sees that Aziraphale immediately recognises the words - the same ones he’d said to Crowley that night in his bookshop, eleven years ago.

‘Crowley…’ Aziraphale pauses. He’s biting his lower lip, brow furrowed. Crowley has seen that expression so many times, but tonight he can only think back to the first time he’d seen that look on Aziraphale this up-close.

The first time that Crowley, despite millennia of feeling _something_ , had wondered what it would be like to kiss Aziraphale, to touch him, like humans do. He can still remember the warmth of Aziraphale’s fingers as he combed them through Crowley’s long hair, and wrapped a thin black veil around him.

He’s glad when Aziraphale speaks again, his voice drowning out the low shudder that escapes Crowley at the memory.

‘You asked me, that night, if I could feel personal love…’

Crowley shifts, his hand gripping the parapet so hard it hurt. ‘Yes?’

Aziraphale meets his gaze. ‘You asked if I ever felt it for someone.’

Crowley lifts one shoulder in a feeble shrug.

Aziraphale is impossibly close now. Crowley can feel his warmth all down his front.

‘I … I couldn’t reply directly. I’d never been able to. But you knew my answer that night,’ Aziraphale says. ‘Didn’t you…?’ He adds, voice almost a whisper, laced with worry and uncertainty.

Crowley’s heart, lying deathly still until now, kicks into a wild beat again. He gives a jerky nod, not trusting himself to speak.

Aziraphale’s expression clears, his relief almost palpable before the intensity returns to his eyes. ‘And you’re … giving me the same answer tonight.’

It’s just barely _not_ a question and Crowley nods again, with more vigour this time. He can barely believe this is happening, _really_ happening.

‘So I … what I mean to say is …’ Aziraphale hesitates. He takes in a breath and slowly licks his lips.

Crowley makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. ‘ _Angel…_!’

‘I too wouldn’t want to live in a Universe that didn’t have you in it, my dear.’

 _Oh_.

The wind picks up, ruffling through Aziraphale’s white blonde curls and sending messy strands of auburn spilling over Crowley’s forehead. There is a distinct chill in the air, but Crowley feels nothing but heat - from the spot on his forearm Aziraphale is still touching, the sheer nearness of Aziraphale’s body, and something deep inside him thrumming and burning and filling him with overwhelming warmth.

Stars above, for how _long_ has he wanted this?

‘Crowley…’ Aziraphale is watching him, looking as hopeful and terrified as Crowley feels. ‘I … my dear, say something.’ He gives a short laugh, just an octave away from sounding hysterical, and Crowley barely holds it together because he recognises that sound as one he himself has made on many occasions around Aziraphale.

‘Angel …’ For the first time since they returned to London, Crowley touches him, raising his left hand to rest his long, spindly fingers timidly on Aziraphale’s cheek. The Angel doesn’t recoil.

‘You understand what you’re saying, don’t you? What this means?’

‘I .. of course, I do,’ exclaims Aziraphale, looking the slightest bit affronted.

‘That things will change, if we do this?’ Crowley presses on seriously. His fingers caress down Aziraphale’s jawbone to rest on his neck. ‘There won’t be any going back, you realise? Cross this line, and things won’t go back to how they were before…’

Aziraphale’s eyes harden then, not with anger, Crowley realises, but conviction. His jaw set, the Angel winds his free arm slowly but deliberately around Crowley’s waist, bringing him to stand flush against Aziraphale. Crowley stops breathing.

‘Yes, I understand. I understood what it meant when I turned to you today, after everyone else let me down. Just like you’d told me they would.’

There’s a glow in his eyes, as if the light from every star Crowley had once created is caught in them, as Aziraphale slides his hand up Crowley’s arm to cup his face.

‘And I understood what it meant when I stood beside you at the end of the world,’ Aziraphale pauses a beat and then blurts, ‘I _chose_ you, and you me, and we stood against Heaven and Hell, and I knew what that meant.’

He brushes his thumb over Crowley’s cheek. ‘And this thing right now, I understand what it means. I only apologise, my dear, for … for taking so long to catch up with you.’

His final words steal Crowley’s breath for what feels like the hundredth time tonight and he gives a helpless peal of laughter.

‘I chose you a long time ago, angel…’

Aziraphale’s breath stutters but he leans into Crowley’s touch, pressing his cheek against his fingers. ‘I know, my dear. I’ve known for a long time.’

It’s not like Crowley didn’t know _that_ , either, but bless him if Aziraphale’s forthright reply doesn’t make his heart ache a little.

Crowley tries one last attempt to deter him, just to be absolutely certain that Aziraphale wants this.*

(* That Aziraphale wants _him_.

The Angel has held him at arm’s length for so long, a Demon can be forgiven for dithering.)

‘Your lot won’t like it, you know.’

Aziraphale’s eyes bore into him. ‘You’re my lot now.’

He surges up against him, catching his lips in a kiss that turns Crowley’s world on its axis before it rights itself again. And then he is kissing Aziraphale back, throwing his free arm around the Angel’s back and crowding him up against the parapet.

For the first several seconds, Crowley can barely think, wholly lost in the sensation of Aziraphale’s touch. His lips have that warmth Crowley has come to associate with Aziraphale over the millennia, and they taste of the wine he was drinking earlier - a taste that grows stronger when Aziraphale surprises him with the tentative press of his tongue between Crowley’s lips. With a groan, Crowley obliges, deepening the kiss and pressing harder against him. Aziraphale’s arm tightens around his waist in reply, while the hand the Angel has on Crowley’s neck slides up to grab his hair.

Crowley gasps a little at the action, pulling away slightly. They’re still so close their noses brush together and Aziraphale goes slightly cross-eyed, but he maintains eye contact as he deliberately curls his fingers through Crowley’s hair, letting his nails drag over his scalp.

With a shiver, Crowley blesses under his breath and kisses Aziraphale again, catching his lower lip between his teeth more aggressively than he means to. Aziraphale doesn’t protest, making a soft breathy sound as Crowley nips at him before kissing him full on the mouth again. His free arm slides up Crowley’s back, hand sliding over his shoulder blades and the spots from where his wings sprout*, before joining his left hand in Crowley’s hair.

(* Even neatly folded away in another dimension, Crowley’s wings react immediately, rustling helplessly with pleasure at Aziraphale’s touch.)

The way Aziraphale drags Crowley’s hair through his nimble fingers is nearly as distracting as his mouth. Now with both hands aiding his assault, Aziraphale twists his fingers through the mussed locks on either side of Crowley’s head. Crowley can _feel_ him smirking when he involuntarily trembles and sags against the Angel.

Crowley counters by demonstrating to Aziraphale exactly what really weird things he can do with his tongue, and is most pleased when he is rewarded by the positively sinful sound Aziraphale makes.

The Angel breaks away, his cheeks flushed and his lips very red. Crowley still has him pinned against the parapet, and the Demon, momentarily worried that he’d done something wrong, is relieved when Aziraphale doesn’t push him off.

Aziraphale lowers his eyes, and then, blushing, murmurs, ‘I suppose I can see why humans like doing this.’

Crowley laughs softly. ‘If the past six millennia have taught us anything, it’s that humans can show us a thing or two on how stuff are done.’ He smoothes his hands over Aziraphale’s shoulders. ‘Free will, for one thing.’

When Aziraphale looks up at him again, his eyes are shining. ‘And love, too.’

Heat rushes to his face and Crowley blinks, his lips curving up uncontrollably. ‘Yes. That, too.’

He kisses Aziraphale again, more softly than the heated kisses they shared before. Aziraphale smiles against his lips and then gently turns his face, so he can speak.

‘My dear, we should…’ His voice trails off when Crowley, with a dissatisfied growl, begins to mouth along his left jawbone. ‘We … we should discuss that prophe…’

Aziraphale stops talking again when Crowley turns his attention to his neck, trailing down languid, open-mouthed kisses. He fumbles with Aziraphale’s collar when the offending fabric gets in the way, but Aziraphale’s ridiculous tartan bowtie wins the fight and Crowley, hissing under his breath but aware of the earful he’d receive if he miracled the damn thing away, resigns himself to sucking hungrily at the pulse just visible under his pale skin.

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. ‘You’re going to leave bruises if you keep this up.’

‘Only if … you wanted … me to…’

‘Are you trying to tempt me, you old Serpent?’ Aziraphale teases, but he tilts his head all the same when Crowley turns his attention to the right side of his neck.

Crowley pauses. ‘You’ve been tempting me for thousands of years, angel. Since the Garden, in fact.’

He hears Aziraphale catch his breath. ‘Since the Gar … _that_ long?’

He winces. He hadn’t meant to admit that. But Crowley doesn’t want to go into that discussion right now, so he resumes his lazy attack on Aziraphale’s neck, hoping to distract him.

It either works or Aziraphale gets the message because he doesn’t pursue the topic. Wrapping an arm around him, Aziraphale starts petting his hair again. Crowley makes an approving sound against his neck.

‘You know, I’ve always thought,’ Aziraphale runs his fingers through the auburn locks, ‘you have the loveliest hair, my dear.’

Crowley straightens up slowly, staring at Aziraphale with wide eyes. The Angel doesn’t remove his hand.

‘It’s the first thing I noticed when we met,’ Aziraphale admits.

‘Really? And here I thought it was my eyes,’ Crowley deadpans, but the effect is ruined by the blush taking over his face.

‘Your eyes are lovely, too,’ says Aziraphale, and Crowley is a little bowled over at the plainness of his voice. It’s not a white lie. ‘Took a little getting used to, but they are beautiful. Your hair, however…’

‘You’re not going to start singing odes to my hair, are ya.’

Aziraphale smirks a little. ‘Something tells me you wouldn’t mind if I did.’

‘Angel!’ Crowley protests, but his blush won’t leave.

‘I was glad whenever I got the chance to touch it…’

Crowley gives him a look. ‘You touched my hair the very day we met.’

Aziraphale grins. ‘I wouldn’t have admitted it then, but I’d been wanting to. Thankfully, there was a tree in the perfect spot.’

‘I told you, I didn’t walk into the blessed tree, it walked into me,’ Crowley grumbles.

There is a twinkle in Aziraphale’s eye. ‘Of course, it did. And I’m glad it did. I found out your hair feels as lovely as it looks.’

Crowley gazes at him for a long moment, gathering his courage. He reaches up to brush his fingers through Aziraphale’s blond hair, watching the way it gently curls and sticks up across his head.

His hair is soft, smooth between Crowley’s fingers. 

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows when Crowley settles his hand on his neck, where his fingers continue to play with the short blond strands at his nape.

‘I like your hair, too, angel,’ Crowley mumbles.

Aziraphale gives a breathy laugh. ‘Thank you, my dear. Though if you insist on turning this into a competition, I warn you now that I shall win by a long shot.’

Crowley snorts but decides that he can always rise to that challenge later.

As he tugs playfully at Aziraphale’s short hair, he is struck by a sudden thought.

‘You prefer my hair long, don’t you?’

Aziraphale blinks. ‘What?’

Crowley self-consciously touches the dark red strands falling over his forehead. His hair isn’t as short as Aziraphale’s but it’s definitely not the long, trailing curls Aziraphale had touched those few times over the millennia.

‘I’ll grow it out again,’ he promises quickly, wondering if he should just miracle it long right now.

‘Crowley,’ says Aziraphale, catching his hand and holding it. ‘That’s not it. I like your hair, however you wear it. It doesn’t matter.’

Crowley frowns. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ says Aziraphale firmly. ‘You don’t have to change anything for me. Besides,’ he adds with a smile, ‘if we … play our cards right, I’m certain there’ll be endless days where you can enjoy whatever new fashion that catches your fancy.’

That brings Crowley up short. ‘Endless days. If we survive “playing with fire”, you mean.’

‘Yes. That’s what I was trying to say earlier. We need to discuss a plan. I think I have an idea that might work.’

Crowley tightens his hold on Aziraphale’s hand. ‘Can it wait? Just a little while? I …’ He exhales loudly, looking desperately at Aziraphale. ‘For all we know, Upstairs and Below might come for us as early as tomorrow. But tonight, I … I just …’

Aziraphale touches his face, his smile soft. ‘I understand. It can wait a while.’

Crowley breathes a contented sigh as Aziraphale draws him close again. The taste of wine has faded from his lips, replaced by something that reminds Crowley of the first rain they had witnessed together, as they watched the first humans take their first steps out into a world that would unexpectedly bind a being of Heaven and a being of Hell with their shared love for all its wonders. It was the rain that started it all…

It _is_ the rain he’s tasting, Crowley realises abruptly and breaks their kiss to look up at the sky. The stars have disappeared and the storm, which had been duly heralded by cold gusts neither of them had paid mind to, is finally here, weeping its tears over them.

As the rain falls, soaking into their hair and clothes, Aziraphale pulls away just enough to gaze across over the rooftops. The city lights twinkle and blur through the shower.

‘Do you remember the rainfalls we got sometimes, at the end of terrible things? Like those rains after some wars ended, or the rains at the end of hot droughts?’

‘Yeah?’

‘This feels like those rains.’ Aziraphale smiles. ‘Peaceful. Cleansing.’

‘It reminds me of the first one,’ says Crowley quietly.

Aziraphale glances at him. ‘The first one. Yes. Do you remember?’

Crowley gazes at Aziraphale, drinking in the soggy blond hair flattened under the rain, and the kind eyes and blinding smile that always seemed to him to shine brighter than any light of Heaven. His heart aches and soars for him.

‘How could I ever forget?’ murmurs the Serpent and unfurls his charcoal black wings, extending one over the Angel’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such a love/hate relationship with this final chapter, some parts were so hard to write - I'm looking at you, kiss scene, ugh - but overall I'm satisfied and just so darn happy to actually finish this fic, CAN I HEAR A WAHOO?
> 
> Thank you, everyone, who gave this a chance and enjoyed it and shared your thoughts. It means a lot to me and I appreciate it all. 
> 
> If you guys are interested, I have another Good Omens fic in the works, starring our beloved Ineffable Husbands (it may or may not be a one-shot, don't hold me to that tho, cos _this_ one was supposed to be a one-shot too and look what happened). Hoping to publish that one by around mid-September, so stay tuned~
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are appreciated, as always <3  
> Hit me up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/RV_Phoenix_Soar) or [Tumblr](https://phoenix-soar.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> More of my Ineffable Husbands fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=575567&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Phoenix_Soar)


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